The Unusual Suspects
by fwennie
Summary: It was the incandescent pain, which burned brilliantly across his chest and down both his arms, that pulled Dean back to consciousness. He gasped as he struggled to move and found that he couldn't. Graphic horror, hurt & humor. Hurt Dean/Sam kicks butt.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N **Special thanks going to my beta's katriel1987 for volunteering to complete the horrible task of turning my ramblings into something readable and to Merisha (who died several times from 'waiting'!) for the occasional gentle prod and providing the spit to make it shiny. Any mistakes are of course my own, due to my inability to stop fiddling!

**DISCLAIMER TYPE THINGY:- **Eric Kripke owns everything Supernatural. I'll put them all back when I've finished, I promise.

The Unusual Suspects

Chapter 1

Delaware National Park

**J. Winchester; Journal extract. **

**Tailypo – **_A dog-size creature, characteristically yellow-eyed with black fur. Hunts only at night, using its claws to skin its quarry. Not a demon or spirit, kill it!_

"Shoot. Dean, for God's sake, shoot," Sam hissed, the veins in his neck standing out like steel cords, taut beneath his skin. Sam stared intently into the darkness, his eyes frantically searching for the first glimpse of the beast stalking him.

The rustling in the dense undergrowth grew louder as the creature closed the short distance between it and the young hunter whose scent filled its nostrils. Sam backed nervously away from the large dark shadow that gradually separated itself from the dark foliage.

"Dean?" Sam whispered urgently. "Anytime now would be really good!" Sam strained to hear an indication that Dean had heard his plea, not daring to take his eyes away from the ominous shape approaching out of the gloom.

"Just need one clean shot Sammy," Dean whispered calmly.

_SNSNSNSNSN_

The hunters had been tracking the creature through the forest for the past three hours; they were both tired and hungry. Pride kept them moving; that and the fact that the creature had turned its attention from cattle, and onto human prey. But despite covering the ground as rapidly as they could, they didn't seem to be getting any closer to the beast. The forest, seemingly in a conscious effort to thwart their progress in the beasts favor, had been so dense in places that they had been forced to walk single file, taking turns forcing a path through the hostile foliage.

Dean had taken the lead fifteen minutes earlier, mumbling curses as he pushed his way through a particularly thorny patch of undergrowth that had scratched his skin and snagged his clothes. He had just stepped into a natural clearing when he had heard Sam take a sharp breath. Dean had swung around, raising his flashlight and gun. His brother was backing into the clearing; something was plainly wrong. Dean had swept his flashlight in Sam's direction, but he hadn't been able to see anything other than his brother. Then he'd heard what had alarmed Sam: the rustling of leaves and the faint snapping of twigs. The sounds revealed that their quarry had managed to circle them. They were being stalked from behind.

_SNSNSNSNSN_

The night air was saturated with a heavy mist that hugged the ground, only reaching up to their knees, dampening not only their clothing, but the sounds of the forest. At least, sounds other than the stealthy footfalls which were probably fixed more in Sam's imagination than in reality, footfalls that now headed toward him without hesitation. Sam strained his eyes, relying on the wan illumination supplied by the moon, his only source of light. The flashlight he had been carrying now rested on the bottom of the nearby fast-flowing stream. He had dropped it when he'd slipped on rocks and drenched himself just ten minutes earlier. And if that hadn't been enough, he'd also lost his gun, leaving them taking turns to share Dean's. His brother had tried hard not to laugh at him, but had anyway, a true laugh that Sam would have been delighted to hear in normal circumstances. Circumstances that didn't include Sam freezing his ass off, in the middle of the night, in the middle of a forest, being hung out as bait.

Sam finally caught his first glimpse of the creature. The moon's eerie, luminescent glow reflected in the creature's yellow eyes as it edged closer. A low growl rumbled from its chest, and Sam felt it reverberate through his body. The darkness slowly coalesced into the form of a large black dog that slunk ever closer.

Sam slowly backed away from the creature, which was rapidly crossing the clearing in which he stood. The animal paused and raised its head, its nose twitching as it sniffed the air. It lowered its head once more and began inching forward, it ears lying flat on its skull as it watched its prey. The hound was large; with its head raised it was almost eye to eye with Sam. It was now close enough for Sam to see the greasy sheen of its black coat and smell the aroma of damp dog.

"Dean!" Sam whispered desperately. "I really think you should be killing something soon." Sam was beginning to panic. _God, how much closer?_ he thought. It was bad enough seeing the luminescent eyes; he could now see the Tailypo's teeth, scratch that, the Tailypo's _big_ teeth, as it bared them menacingly at him.

"Just a little closer, Sam," Dean said coolly, as though he had heard Sam's thoughts. He needed to make sure the bullet hit the creature's heart and killed it outright.

The black dog stopped, no more than twenty feet from where Sam stood. Its lips quivered and curled back from its fangs as its yellow eyes stared unblinkingly at him. It gave another low guttural growl, and glistening saliva dripped from its fangs. Sam was under no illusions; he knew it was perfectly capable of covering more than that distance in one leap. He wasn't completely sure whether it was the cold that seeped into his body from his wet clothing, or the hound that wanted him for dinner, that was causing the slight shake in his legs at that moment. Whatever had caused the wobble instantly vanished when the Tailypo crouched down and readied itself to pounce.

"Down, now!" Dean shouted as the hound launched itself into the air, heading straight for Sam's head.

Sam dropped to the ground, rolled onto his left side, and curled into a ball. His arms immediately covered his head in a protective motion. If Dean missed, the black dog would be on Sam in seconds, tearing at his throat.

The bullet from Dean's Glock slammed squarely into the center of the Tailypo's chest. The hound yelped as the bullet tore through its skin and muscle, smashed its ribs, and exploded its black heart.

The bullet's velocity threw the animal back, and it fell heavily onto Sam's legs, trapping them under its weight. The hound died on impact, but its nerves continued to fire, causing the creature's legs to spasm and thrash. Its long claws raked at the leaf-strewn ground and scraped across Sam's jeans. Its own blood had erupted from its throat and now covered its jaws as they snapped open and closed, biting at the air.

Sam remained still for the few seconds it took for the creature to stop twitching. Then he sat up, twisting at the waist so he could prop himself up on his arms. Sam's right leg lay over his left, hampering his efforts to free himself. Burrowing his heel as deep into the ground as possible, he pumped his right knee up and down, hoping to dislodge the dead weight that still held him pinned to the ground.

"Dean," Sam said, turning his head to look back over his shoulder. "If you're not too busy, I could use a little help here!" He raised his eyebrows at his brother, who didn't appear to be in any rush to help him.

Dean sauntered towards Sam, the handgun now pointing at the ground. He grinned when he saw Sam's unsuccessful efforts to free himself, and then moved to help his struggling brother.

"Hey Sam, I bet..." Dean began, laughing.

"Dean," Sam interrupted quickly. "I swear to God, if you try to crack a joke about dogs I'll..."

Sam's words were cut off when the forest to their left exploded in a tumult of leaves, twigs, snapping teeth and claws. A second Tailypo thundered toward them from a few feet away, its eyes blazing yellow as it let out a blood-curdling howl.

Dean stood immobilized, for a fraction of a second before twisting his torso around and simultaneously raising the handgun. The shot rang out, and the hound's rear end slewed away from the hunters as the bullet tore into its hindquarters. The hound yelped in pain, but did not falter in its charge. Dean pulled the trigger a second time, but he was out of time and space. The hound was upon him, and the bullet ricocheted into the trees.

Dean's reflexes saved his arm as he twisted away from the hound's jaws, which snapped shut on empty air where his limb had just been. The hound steamrolled onward. Its massive bulk slammed hard into Dean's side, knocking him off his feet and sending him sailing back into the rough undergrowth at the edge of the clearing.

"Dean." Sam yelled in alarm, hearing Dean's grunt of pain as his brother landed some distance behind him. Sam felt air stir against the back of his neck as the hound, still running, passed close behind him.

Dean hit the ground hard on his back, his breath left in a whoosh. The gun slipped from his grasp, the jolt of landing shaking it from his grip. Dean didn't stop to pull air back into his lungs; his brother was unarmed and in danger. He shot upright, giving no consideration to whether he'd been injured or not. He swiftly looked into the clearing, and pulled in a sharp breath when he saw the Tailypo pass his brother's back and slow to a stop.

"Sam, look out!" Dean shouted. Not waiting for a response, he scrambled to his hands and knees and fumbled through the foliage, searching for the gun that had to be close by.

Sam heard Dean's warning and threw an anxious glance to his right. The hound had stopped in its tracks and was now turning around to face him. Sam leaned forward, pushing and kicking as hard as he could at the carcass trapping his legs, but it was hopeless. He just didn't have enough leverage to move its mass.

"DEAN!" Sam shouted desperately. "Shoot, goddammit."

Dean's fingers scrabbled desperately through the sodden piles of leaves. _Shit, where_ _the hell is it! _he thought frantically. He couldn't find the gun. His fingertips touched something smooth and round, and his hand, seemingly of it own volition, closed over the egg-sized stone. The hound was less than ten feet from where Sam lay struggling.

Pulling his arm back, Dean threw the stone as hard as he could at the abomination threatening his brother. The stone struck the hound's side with a wet-sounding thunk and bounced off. The creature's head whipped around to find the source of the attack. It paused momentarily, staring balefully in Dean's direction, seeming to contemplate whether or not the man kneeling at the edge of the clearing was a significant threat. It dismissed Dean's presence and turned back to the prey already brought down by its mate.

Sam's world contracted; consisting now of the small space that existed between him and the creature, and his thundering heartbeat. Only feet away, the hound's rancid breath filled Sam's nostrils, and his throat constricted as he snatched short, painful gasps of air.

Sam threw himself back onto his side, and crunching his body into a ball, he once again raised his arms to cover his head, in preparation for the mauling.

Letting out a roar, Dean scrambled to his feet, his arms flailing as he tried to distract the creature from his brother. A dull pewter gleam from the forest floor caught his attention. There on the ground, partially obscured by leaves, lay the handgun. Without pause Dean grabbed the weapon, aimed it at the black dog, and squeezed off two rapid shoots.

The bullets hit their mark. The first missile entered the creature's stomach, and the second penetrated high on its back, shattering its spine. The hound flung its muzzle into the air, letting out an unnatural howl. Its back end, now completely useless, collapsed to the ground.

Dean was already running toward Sam when he saw the hound's rear legs give way. It was falling toward his brother, and it wasn't dead!

Sam shifted slightly. He'd heard the shots, heard the gut-wrenching scream from the hound, and both heard and felt something heavy hit the ground. He began to uncurl and removed his right arm from his head in order to sit up. He was vaguely aware of footsteps running toward him.

"No, Sam," Dean shouted in panic when he saw his brother move. The creature, driven by pain-induced fury and not comprehending its own mortality, bore down on its prey.

Sam, hearing Dean's panicked tone, flung himself back to the ground.

Dean stopped in his tracks. He didn't dare try to shoot while he was running, particularly with the hound so close to his brother. He raised the gun and pulled the trigger. The bullet struck the hound's chest, passed between its ribs, and lodged in its lung. Blood exploded from the beast's muzzle, but it was undaunted, and Dean watched in horror as it clamped massive jaws down on his brother's forearm.

Sam screamed in agony as the hound's teeth tore through layers of clothing and pierced his skin. The hound's jaws continued to crush his forearm, sending waves of pain shooting through his nerves and into his brain. Sam heard the roar of a gunshot and felt the hound shudder as another bullet tore into its chest. Sam gasped in pain as the jolt caused the hound's teeth to grind into skin and muscle. The pressure from the jaws remained constant, and Sam could feel the warmth of his own blood running down his arm, in stark contrast to the cold wetness of his clothes. The hound seemed to be pushing down onto Sam rather than attempting to tear off the limb. Even in his pain-filled state, Sam hadn't expected that.

Dean was almost close enough to reach out and touch the beast that still clung to his brother's arm. The creature was hanging onto life as stubbornly as it was holding onto Sam's arm. The hound's head now lay across Sam's side, pink froth bubbling from its nose as blood leaked from its lungs. Its front legs trembled with the effort of remaining upright. Its eyes blazed yellow as it sensed Dean's proximity, and it issued a wet-sounding growl. Dean hesitated, unsure what he should do. He couldn't shoot directly into its heart, because its head was in the way. He didn't know what would happen if he shot it in the head. What damage would its jaws do to Sam if the bullet caused a spasm? That might happen no matter where he shot it.

Dean pointed the gun at the creature's side, angling the barrel so that the bullet would enter behind its scapula and, hopefully, hit its heart. Sam groaned in pain, and Dean, as though in reply, pulled the trigger.

Dean kicked the hound hard in the side as its forelegs collapsed. The hound fell to the right in slow motion, its jaws still tightly clamped around Sam's forearm.

Sam cried out in pain as the teeth gouged and twisted into his forearm, and he felt himself being dragged forward and to his right. His vision was blurred by tears of pain, but he gradually realized that the hound had stopped pulling him, that it was no longer crushing his arm. Then Dean was by his side, helping him sit up and easing the tension on his arm, which was still held firmly in the dead creature's jaws.

Dean made sure his brother was as comfortable as possible before turning his attention to extracting Sam's arm from the hound's jaws.

"This might hurt a little, Sam," Dean stated as he stood near the creature's head, holding a sturdy-looking branch. Dean smiled at his brother and waited for Sam to acknowledge his statement.

Sam looked dumbly at his brother for a second before he realized that Dean was asking his permission. He nodded his agreement, but was feeling too nauseated to return his brother's smile.

Dean took the branch and stuck it into the creature's mouth behind Sam's arm. He glanced briefly at his brother's pale, dirt-streaked face and then pulled back on the branch as hard as he could. Sam arched up slightly, biting back a yell as pain lanced up his arm. Dean felt the branch begin to bend as he grunted and strained harder, he needed to get this damn thing off his brother.

Sam felt like he was going to puke, and Dean was making matters worse. The hound's head jerked and twisted as Dean fought to release his brother's arm. Just when Sam thought he was going to pass out, there was a sharp snap and he fell back onto the forest floor. His arm finally free.

Dean stumbled back as the jaws sprang open, not caring whether the snap was the branch breaking or the creature's bones. He saw Sam fall back onto the forest floor, gasping in pain. He moved quickly to the other hound that trapped Sam's lower body. Grasping the hound's legs, Dean heaved the mass inch by inch off his brother.

Sam lay still, fighting down the urge to puke. His damaged arm, lying across his stomach, felt like it was on fire. He felt Dean tugging at the hound covering his legs. The first sensation he noticed from that part of his body was cold. The creature that had trapped his legs had been keeping him warm.

Dean moved back to his brother's side. Sam was shivering and his eyes looked glassy.

"Sam!" Dean's worried voice brought Sam out of his stupor. "C'mon, let's get outta here." Dean helped his brother sit up, and then, supporting Sam, helped him stand. Dean desperately wanted to check Sam's arm, but it was too dark, he didn't have the medical kit, and Sam was shaking. Dean hoped that Sam was just cold and not going into shock. With his arm around his taller brother's back, supporting him, Dean guided Sam back toward the car.

Sam mechanically placed one foot in front of the other. Although he kept his injured arm pressed against his chest, it still throbbed with every step he took. His legs seemed ok, apart from being a little stiff, but he was grateful for Dean's support nonetheless.

"Not much farther," Dean said encouragingly. "Five minutes, and we'll be back at the car."

"Ok," Sam replied. "I think I'll be alright on my own now." He was beginning to feel a little better. The walk had warmed him up, he had stopped shaking, and he no longer felt like he was going to throw up. The pain in his arm hadn't eased, but he could cope with it.

"You sure?" Dean asked, looking doubtful.

"Sure." Sam nodded stoically. "Really, I'm fine." He smiled wanly at his brother, who was looking at him with a worried expression.

Dean removed his arm from Sam's back, but stayed close by his side, just in case.

Within a few minutes, they stepped onto a dirt track. The Impala, gleaming in the moonlight, was parked no more than two hundred yards away.

"We'll get that arm sorted out back at the motel," Dean said, shooting Sam a comforting smile as they approached the car. Dean dug the car keys from the inside of his jacket as he walked around to the driver's side. "C'mon, get in the car, Shaggy," he said with a smirk.

"Shaggy?" Sam asked, shaking his head and looking at Dean in puzzlement.

"Yeah, you know, hounds! Dogs! Scooby Doo! Shaggy!" Dean raised his eyebrows, still smirking.

"Oh, I get it. Like humor, but different," Sam said as he got into the passenger seat and slammed the door. He allowed himself a quick grin before his brother got in. Dean's sense of humor was a little obscure sometimes.

Dean's smirk vanished, replaced by a moderately hurt look.

"Wasn't that bad," he muttered to no one before getting into the car.

TBC...


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N **Special thanks going to my beta's katriel1987 for volunteering to complete the horrible task of turning my ramblings into something readable and to Merisha for the occasional gentle prod (with a stick!) and providing the spit to make it shiny. Any mistakes are of course my own.

**DISCLAIMER TYPE THINGY:- **Eric Kripke owns everything Supernatural. I'll put them all back when I've finished, I promise.

The Unusual Suspects

Chapter Two

Delaware Water Gap, New Jersey

Pine View Motel

"Hold still, will you?" Dean said irritably as Sam tried to pull his arm away for the umpteenth time.

"It still stings," Sam replied grouchily, fidgeting on the hard-backed chair as Dean probed the bites on his forearm with cotton wool soaked in rubbing alcohol.

"It's supposed to," responded Dean matter-of-factly. Dean was sitting opposite Sam at the small dining table, which was currently covered in their medical supplies and used cotton wool and gauze strips. His eyebrows knitted together in deep concentration as he checked to make sure Sam's wounds were clean.

"Oww," Sam cried in obvious discomfort as he pulled his arm away again and scowled at his brother. "You're pressing down, there's no need to press down!"

"Do you want to do it?" Dean asked testily, tiring of his brother's performance. He had hardly slept in the last 24 hours and he and he had the mother of all headaches lurking behind his eyes.

"Yeah," Sam replied with a murderous look. He still hadn't forgotten last nights drive back to the motel, when had Dean pointed out that he should be grateful he still had an arm, and that thanks to _him_, the hound had been as good as dead before it used him as a doggie chew!

"Fine." Dean threw the used cotton wool onto the table, where it landed with a soggy splat. "I'll just go and get the food then, shall I, Princess?" Dean rose from the table and turned to stalk out of the motel room without looking at Sam or waiting for a response.

Sam grabbed a clean piece of cotton wool and threw it into the bowl containing a mixture of rubbing alcohol and water. "Bring proper food," he shouted at his brother's back as Dean slammed the door behind him.

_SNSNSNSNSN_

Six Hours Earlier

Sam walked with leaden legs into the too-beige motel room. It was strange that a room could be too beige, but this one was. They had stayed in many bizarre motel rooms where a touch of beige would have been a welcome relief from the insane decor. Here, however, the decorator had decided on maximum ordinariness as his weapon of choice.

Sam shrugged the jacket off his shoulders, and that was where he got stuck. The sleeve was tight and painful across his wounds, and whichever way he tried to move his jacket, whether back up his arms or completely off, it hurt. Then Dean was helping him, telling him to lower and straighten both arms, sliding the jacket off easily. Sam's damp shirt soon followed. Dean made Sam sit down and then checked his wounds.

Sam had been uncharacteristically lucky; though his arm looked a mess, the bites were not too deep. Dean initially cleaned Sam's wounds, wiping away the blood and dirt with salt water. Then Sam dragged himself into the shower, where he washed the rest of the dirt from his body and avoided getting soap on his damaged arm. When he emerged from the bathroom, Dean was patiently waiting for him with the medical kit open and ready for use.

Sam sat down on the edge of his bed and Dean, sitting next to him, looked at him apologetically and said, "Sorry, Sam, this is gonna sting." Then Dean cleaned the wounds properly. He'd been right; it stung like hell.

Dean placed the final gauze dressing on Sam's damaged arm, pressing gently on the tape to hold it in place. He scrutinized his brother's face. Sam looked done in; dark smudges had appeared under his eyes, and other than trying to jerk his arm away, he hadn't complained much as his wounds were tended. Dean had delayed taking a shower until Sam was asleep, lying flat on his back on his bed, the crook of his left arm slung over his face.

Dean had lingered in the shower, letting the hot water drive the chill from his body. He leaned forward with his hands against the cold tiles. Breathing deeply, water thrumming on his back, he felt himself relax. His fingertips were beginning to wrinkle by the time he turned off the shower. Allowing himself a cursory glance in the mirror, he checked for injuries. The glance confirmed that he had escaped relatively unscathed, apart from a fresh crop of bruises down his side and back. After toweling himself dry, he exited the bathroom to hear the sound of Sam's regular breathing. He switched out the lights and lay down on his bed. He was tired, but he lay awake, watching shadows dance on the ceiling to the tune of passing cars, and just listening to Sammy breathing. Tonight's events had been far too close for comfort.

_SNSNSNSNSN_

"Did you put antiseptic on it?" Dean asked when he walked back into the motel room an hour later, carrying the bag of groceries in his arms. He nodded his head at the clean dressing on Sam's arm.

Sam was still sitting at the dining table, although he now had his laptop open and was pecking at the keyboard with his left hand.

"Yeah, it's not too bad. There's no infection," Sam replied, throwing his brother a reconciliatory smile. He had felt guilty the moment his brother had slammed the motel door behind him. After all, Dean had been looking after him the only way he knew how.

Dean placed the bag on the table next to the laptop.

"Good thing you just had a tetanus shot a few weeks back bro, cause I swear, you must have some seriously weird pheromone leakage problems going on in that freaky body of yours." Dean waved his hand wildly in Sam's direction, "Seriously dude, when it comes to wild animals wanting to take a chunk out of your sorry ass, you're like candy." Sam gave Dean a dirty look."Dean, that chipmunk in the park looked friendly. How was I supposed to know he would turn feral on me when I offered him some of my ham on rye?"

Dean just shook his head, reaching into his jacket pocket, he pulled out a tattered-looking leaflet. Sam looked curiously at his brother as a smile lit up Dean's face. Glancing at the piece of paper, Sam wondered what could possibly be causing Dean's additional amusement.

"Well?" Sam asked when it became apparent that Dean wasn't going to enlighten him.

"Madam Marika," Dean said, as if the two words were an answer to Sam's question. Dean passed the leaflet to Sam, who read the details aloud.

"Appearing for one week only, Madam Marika, the Egyptian Belly Dancing Diva." Sam shook his head in puzzlement and looked at Dean, who was still grinning and looking a little glassy-eyed.

"And?" Sam prompted, musing over what kind of job Dean had managed to dig up for them. Could this woman have invoked an ancient Egyptian curse, and was, even now, being plagued by boils and locusts?

"She's still here!" Dean replied far more excitedly than Sam was comfortable with. Sam shrugged his shoulders and stuck out his bottom lip to indicate he needed further clarification.

Dean continued, "I'm thinking tonight, a few beers, Madam Marika, a few more beers, and then tomorrow we'll be on our way." Dean's half grin returned as his thoughts briefly flashed to a lurid mental image involving exotic dancing.

"Maybe not. If I can just interrupt your downstairs brain for a moment, take a look at this," Sam said seriously, swiveling the laptop so Dean could see the website he'd been viewing.

"Just give me the highlights while I get lunch together. I'm starving and I need to eat." Businesslike, Dean took off his jacket and threw it on his bed. He began emptying the groceries onto the table as Sam turned the laptop around to face him.

"Bobby sent some information over, thought we might be interested." _Chicken, yeah that's good,_ thought Sam as he half-watched Dean unpack the groceries.

"In what?" Dean asked, raising his eyebrows as he continued emptying the bag.

Sam turned his attention back to the screen. "A couple of men from a survey team out near a place called Newfoundland went missing about two weeks ago." _Bread and soda, okay, _Sam thought as Dean's unpacking captured his attention again.

"Anything else?"

"It's not the first time." _Potato chips and cookies! _"Um, one other guy vanished about three months ago." _Family-sized bag of M&M's...six pack of beer...empty bag!_

"Maybe they didn't like the work, and you know, just took off," Dean said, ripping open the bag and throwing a dozen M&M's into his mouth.

"Dude, where's the food?" Sam asked, staring in disbelief at the items on the table.

"What?" Dean replied innocently as he swallowed the chocolate mush. "I think you'll find I've covered all the major food groups: protein, carbohydrates, starch and alcohol. And besides, I make a mean chicken and potato chip sandwich." Dean shot Sam his best disarming smile as he headed to the bathroom to wash his hands before preparing their lunch.

Sam sat and watched the bathroom door. He heard water running and Dean humming tunelessly as he washed his hands. Dean exited the bathroom, and Sam watched as he took slices of bread from the loaf and lay them on the now empty paper bag. Dean split open the bag containing the potato chips, then, taking the whole chicken, pulled off a chuck of the breast meat. He shredded the chicken and laid it carefully on one of the slices of bread. Taking a small handful of chips, he placed them on top of the meat.

"Hey!" Dean exclaimed, throwing a small piece of chicken at his brother. Sam jumped with surprise when the nugget hit him on the side of his mouth, which had been slightly open.

"Here, this one's yours." Dean smirked as he placed the top slice of bread on the sandwich. Cutting it in half with his pocket knife, Dean slid it and the bag toward his brother.

"Thanks," Sam said, slightly embarrassed that he had been mesmerized by a chicken sandwich.

"So, I'm guessing that Bobby's checked that these missing guys are really missing? You know, not just _missing_ missing." Dean said, his attention occupied with the preparation of his own lunch.

Sam grinned at Dean's clumsy statement. "It sounds like English, but I can't understand a word you're saying!"

"Is sarcasm one of the new services you're offering, Sammy? 'Cause if it is, I'm already visualizing the duct tape over your mouth!" Dean waved a piece of chicken threateningly at his brother.

Sam pointed at the lethal piece of poultry. "Just put the chicken down, and step away from the plate," he said with mock gravity that lasted less than a second.

"Not bad Sam." Dean smiled at his brother's cheesy grin.

"Sorry, but yeah, Bobby says it looks as though they've just dropped off the face of the earth." Sam paused, grabbed half the sandwich with his left hand, and took a bite. Sam chewed his mouthful as Dean finished preparing his sandwich by pressing hard on the top slice of bread, mashing the chips into the chicken and bread.

"So I was thinking," continued Sam as he swallowed. "If we set off soon, we'll be there before dark."

"Oh man!" Dean exclaimed, his hands dropping to his sides in disappointment. "Really?"

"Well, there's a Mrs Henderson in Trenton who claims to have seen an image of Jesus on a slice of toast. Other than that, there's nothing else remotely supernatural happening, anywhere." Sam said forcefully, looking up at his brother's dejected face. Snapping the laptop closed, he took a can of soda to help wash his lunch down.

"Just thinking about your arm, man," Dean said, all wide-eyed innocence. He grabbed his lunch in both hands and focused on taking a big bite. He hoped his brother hadn't seen the guilty look that crept onto his face.

_SNSNSNSNSN_

Dean had been driving steadily for the past three hours, and fatigue was making his eyes heavy. The forest scenery did little to help. It hadn't changed for the past two hours, and the monotony of it stretching endlessly behind and in front of him was beginning to have an almost hypnotic effect. In fact, Dean couldn't really remember the last twenty minutes of the journey.

Dusk was rapidly falling, and Dean screwed his eyes up as the sun filtered through the tree branches, intermittently dazzling him. He rubbed his hand over his face and gently wiped his gritty eyes.

Sam had fallen asleep an hour into the journey, and Dean had switched off the tape to let him rest undisturbed. Dean glanced at his brother, whose head was resting against his chest and the passenger window. Sam was in a deep sleep, but he mumbled and twitched his wounded arm as though reliving the hound's attack. Dean really didn't want to wake Sam, he still looked a little too pale and drawn for his liking, but he needed some stimulus to keep him awake. He cranked his window down and the cold mountain air flooded the car. Dean took a deep breath and held it for a few beats.

A movement in his peripheral vision caught his attention. Something dark, moving low to the ground and behind the trees edging the road, seemed to be hurtling through the forest parallel to the car.

Dean squeezed his eyes shut for a fraction of a second. He opened his eyes and looked again, seeing only trees, nothing else.

_Man, I seriously need to take a break, _Dean thought as he rolled his eyes and let out the breath he had been unintentionally holding.

"Dude, it's freezing," Sam said, startling Dean. "I'm getting pneumonia here, shut the window will you?"

"Er, sure." Dean wound the window closed.

"You okay?" asked Sam, noticing that his brother looked a little shaken.

"Yeah Sam, I'm fine. Just a little tired is all." Dean loosened his grip on the steering wheel when he realized his knuckles were turning white.

"Hey, there's a gas station. Pull over."

Dean swung the Impala into the two-pump station and pulled to a stop, kicking up a mini dust storm in the process.

Sam exited the car, yawned, and stretched his long limbs before entering the store. Dean walked purposefully to the trunk and removed the gas cap from under the license plate intending to fill up..

Dean had finished fueling the car and leaned on the hood, staring absentmindedly at his boots. Sam was taking his time. Dean looked idly in the direction of the store and watched Sam converse with the cashier before handing over the credit card. When Sam exited, he was carrying a newspaper and two bottles of water.

"The guy in the store says we're about thirty minutes out of Newfoundland, there's a motel north of the town," Sam said as he handed a bottle to Dean. Sam stood near Dean as he unscrewed the cap off the bottle and drank thirstily. Dean nodded in acknowledgment, but remained leaning on the hood. Sure he was tired, but he was pretty sure he'd seen something back there.

He stood and stretched his arms and back. His neck creaked and cracked as he moved it from side to side before taking a mouthful of water. "Anything interesting?" He asked Sam, nodding at the paper tucked under his arm.

"Dunno, maybe." Sam screwed up his face. "It's just a local paper," he tucked the water bottle into his pocket as he spread open the newspaper on the hood so Dean could see.

"Here," Sam said, pointing to an article on the fourth page. Dean scanned the item's title and the first few lines of the story.

"Dude!" He exclaimed. "You're not buying into this, are you?" He apprehensively searched his brother's face.

Sam shrugged and looked a little uneasy. "There've been sightings for hundreds of years. There may be something to it."

"C'mon man, you're kidding, right?" Dean laughed at Sam's joke. He couldn't be serious, could he? Sam wasn't smiling. "I mean, it's like saying you believe in unicorns or something. It's just an old wives' tale."

"Just read the article, Dean," Sam said, sounding vexed.

Sam watched Dean's face as he finished the article. He didn't look any more convinced.

"Well?" he asked.

"The Jersey Devil," Dean stated, raising his right eyebrow skeptically.

"Look, I'm just asking you to be open minded, okay?" Sam said as he got back into the passenger seat.

Dean folded the newspaper and climbed back into the car, sliding behind the steering wheel. He threw the newspaper and water bottle onto the back seat. He was conscious that Sam was watching him and waiting for his response as he started the car.

"Okay, I'll keep an open mind," _Even if I have to use a crowbar, _he thought as he pumped the gas, making the tires spin in the dirt.

_SNSNSNSNSN_

Dean saw Sam's head drop forward and jerk back. It had only been ten minutes since they'd pulled out of the gas station, and Sam was already dozing off again. _Probably the painkillers making him drowsy._ Dean briefly contemplated rousing his brother, as he knew this semi-dozing state left Sam feeling sick and head-achy.

There was movement in the treeline again, on the fringe of Dean's vision. He turned his head slightly for a better view. There was something out there; he hadn't imagined it. Something large and dark moved behind the trees about six or seven feet from the ground, easily keeping pace with the Impala.

"Sam, wake up," Dean said loudly.

"What, what is it?" Sam came alert. The tone of Dean's voice had blasted into his semi-sleep state.

"There's something over there, in the trees. Look." Dean pointed at the dark shape still moving parallel to them.

"Dean, look out!" Sam shouted in alarm.

Dean's eyes shot forward as he jammed his foot on the brake. The tires smoked as the rear of the car slewed dangerously across the road. Something solid connected with the windshield, and a sharp crack reported through the car.

Dean was breathing heavily, and he could hear the whooshing sound of his blood pumping in his ears. He looked over at Sam, who was sitting similarly in shock, looking at the thing plastered on the windshield.

"What the hell!" Dean exclaimed, regaining use of his faculties.

Something black was spread against the windshield on Dean's side of the car. Dean leaned forward in his seat, moving his head side to side as he tried to figure out what it was.

"God," said Sam. "It's a crow." His position off to the side afforded him a clearer view. He could see its curled-up feet and its small black bright eye. The bird's beak had cracked the windshield and was now thrusting through it. The bird's blood smeared around the hole, tracing the hair-line cracks that radiated outwards.

Dean moved his right hand toward the bird's beak. His finger had almost reached it when the bird flapped feebly. Dean pulled his hand away as though receiving an electric shock.

He sat for a moment, not wanting to do what needed to be done. Unconsciously, he reached for the windshield wipers.

"No, don't, I'll move it," Sam said, and got out of the car.

Sam walked around the hood and stood near Dean's door. Dean watched in morbid fascination as Sam calmly took hold of the bird and tried to remove it from the windshield. It was stuck. The bird flapped its wings, surprising Sam, who dropped its body back onto the windshield with a clunk. Dean felt nauseous, probably because of the tiredness. His brother picked the bird up again, and Dean turned his head away. He really didn't have the stomach to deal with this right now.

Dean knew his brother was still struggling to remove the bird; he could hear them both. Agitated and unsettled by the struggle, Dean slapped the palm of his hand against the windshield. He felt the bird's beak press briefly into the center of his hand before the coldness of the glass hit his palm. Sam staggered back a few steps as the bird was released and then disappeared from view for a few moments before getting into the car.

"Did you...?" Dean asked, not needing to finish the question.

"Yeah, it's taken care of." Sam confirmed, speaking softly. The bird had been so badly injured, he'd had to put it out of it's misery.

"Um," grunted Dean, and stared at the small circle of bird blood staining his palm and wondering why the hell his hands were shaking so much.

TBC...


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N **Special thanks going to my beta's katriel1987 for volunteering to complete the horrible task of turning my ramblings into something readable and to Merisha for the occasional gentle prod (with a larger stick) and providing the spit to make it shiny. Any mistakes are of course my own.

**DISCLAIMER TYPE THINGY:- **Eric Kripke owns everything Supernatural. I'll put them all back when I've finished, I promise.

The Unusual Suspects

Chapter Three

Cherry Tree Motel, Newfoundland

"Holy crap," Dean exclaimed in disgust as his vision was assaulted by the horrific sight in front of him. "It looks like something Barbie puked up." The brothers stood shoulder to shoulder in the doorway of their motel room, neither wanting to be the first to enter.

It was shortly after 7 pm and, unfortunately, neither of them was too fatigued to fully appreciate the lurid pink tones and cherry blossom print that covered every fabric surface in the room. Sam sighed and smartly sidestepped his brother. Throwing his bag wearily onto the bed nearest to the window, he began to unpack his few belongings.

Dean entered the room reluctantly. Letting his bag drop noisily onto the floor, he flopped onto his bed and yawned impressively. Sam offered to fetch their food, not because he was especially hungry but to give Dean a rest, willing to drive despite his throbbing arm. Dean stopped him, saying he would go and insisting that Sam take care of his wounds. Dean gave a wry smile, despite the niggling headache he'd had for the past hour, as Sam once again muttered something about bringing proper food.

Sam carefully removed the dressing from his wounded arm. A neat row of puncture marks ran across his forearm. Two deeper gouges marked the top of his arm where the canine teeth had sunk through the skin and torn into muscle. There was very little blood on the dressing, but the wounds were still raw and tender. Sam cautiously touched around the wounded area just to confirm that, as expected, it still hurt. The bruising, deep within the muscle, had yet to develop. He attempted to flex his fingers and winced as the damaged muscles and tendons objected.

He headed to the bathroom, undressed, and enjoyed a long shower, luxuriating in the warmth as he washed. Refreshed, he changed into clean clothes and was starting to put a clean dressing on his arm when Dean returned.

They ate their take out while watching a TV show, another in a long line of monotonous reality shows. It wasn't that entertaining, and Sam tried to make conversation, but Dean seemed preoccupied and somewhat dismissive. Sam didn't relish the idea of spending the rest of the evening receiving cave-man grunts as replies, so he gave up, They had barely finished eating when Dean announced he was going to take a shower. Sam turned the TV off and took two painkillers, washing them down with his soda. He was researching on his laptop when Dean emerged from the bathroom in a cloud of steam and literally fell into his bed a little after 10 pm.

Sam spent another 30 minutes staring at the screen before he switched off his laptop. He'd been unable to concentrate, feeling guilty about tapping away at the keyboard while Dean tried to sleep. Sam stole a quick look at his brother, who was lying on his back. Dean's eyes were closed, but Sam was fairly sure he wasn't sleeping. Stretching and yawning, Sam crawled into his bed and flicked off the lamp.

The moment Sam lay down, his arm began to throb despite the painkillers he had taken. So he lay on his back and considered the day's events, putting his thoughts in order. He actually surprised himself with his train of thought. Being in the middle of a hunt, he would have expected his mind to be filled with that, but it wasn't. He was worried about Dean.

Dean had been pretty cagey when Sam had asked him what he'd seen before they'd hit the bird. Brushing him off with an excuse, saying that he'd thought he'd seen something, but that he'd been tired, and the sun had been in his eyes, and he'd been mistaken. Sam recalled the look on Dean's face when Sam had been trying to remove the bird from the windshield. Sure, it had been a shock to both of them when the bird had hit the car. But that had been nothing compared to that glimpse of Dean's face turning deathly white.

Sam wondered just what was going on in his brother's head.

_SNSNSNSNSN_

Survey Site

"Hey," Dean said to the man carrying a clipboard. "My name's Dean Gilmore, and this is my colleague Francis Smallpiece. We're with the Department of the Interior." Dean flipped open an identity badge at the harassed man.

_Francis Smallpiece!_ Sam shot a withering look at his brother as Dean waved in his direction.

"Someone said you're the foreman?" Dean continued, quickly flipping the wallet shut as the man leaned forward to look at it a little too closely.

"Yeah, that's right, I'm Ray Chapman." He looked between the two officials apprehensively. "Look, what's this about, guys? 'Cause I filed all the permits with you folks three months ago."

"Nothing to worry about, Ray," Dean said in a reassuring tone. "Just, you know, the guys back at the office are a little jumpy about these disappearances. So they've asked us to come up here, have a look around, make sure everything's safe for the tourists. Isn't that right, Francis?" Dean flashed a broad smile at Sam, who now stood by his side.

Sam gritted his teeth in annoyance and forced a smile in Ray's direction, nodding agreement.

"So, all we need from you are the missing guys' worksheets. Is your office this way?" Dean asked, moving toward the port-a-cabin and ushering Ray along with him.

_SNSNSNSNSN_

"What were those guys surveying anyway?" Sam asked as he clambered over a patch of particularly rocky ground.

They had left the car behind fifteen minutes ago. Using the relief map supplied by the foreman, they were climbing up the steep incline toward the survey site.

"Mineral survey. According to Ray, the hills around here are rich in iron ore and other metals," Dean replied breathlessly as he struggled to keep up with his brother. The headache, which had begun the moment they'd headed out toward the site, had worsened as they'd scrambled up the incline, and he could hear his blood pounding in his ears. _Man, I need to get more exercise, _he thought as he stopped for a few seconds to catch his breath.

"I think we're here," Sam said when he saw, a short distance ahead, a rock-strewn clearing scarred by signs of recent blasting.

Sam turned to look for his brother, realizing he could no longer hear Dean clattering over the rocks behind him. "Dean, I said we're here," he repeated when he saw that Dean had come to a standstill.

"Yeah, I heard you," Dean replied petulantly, rubbing his hand over the ache in the back of his neck.

The sound of fluttering wings attracted Dean's attention. Looking up, he squinted against the temporarily blinding brightness of the sky.

"What you looking for?" Sam asked as he noticed Dean's preoccupation with the heavens.

"Uh?" Dean grunted as Sam's voice filtered through to his brain. It took him a beat to unscramble the few words his brother had just spoken. "Nothing, Sam," he replied, shrugging. It was accurate, since in fact he hadn't seen anything. However, he had felt a throbbing pain in his temples, and the little white dots floating across his vision were making him feel a little dizzy and nauseated.

"Sure?" Sam asked, absentmindedly scratching at his healing wounds.

Dean nodded and grimaced. He rolled his head. His neck was stiff and tender and he felt a little warm despite the cool air. He made a mental note not to do that again, not until he'd at least had some painkillers.

"C'mon, old man," Sam urged as he walked through the edge of the trees and out onto the blast area.

Dean puffed out his cheeks, releasing his breath in a steady stream. It didn't help his headache, but it seemed to relieve the very real urge to kick Sam's butt.

"So, I've been doing a little research about the Jersey Devil," Sam began hesitantly when Dean finally caught up with him.

Dean's forehead furrowed at the sound of Sam's fingernails scraping annoyingly over the coarse material of his jacket. "Sam, look. I don't want to piss on your parade, but can we just let this Jersey Devil thing drop?" He said tiredly, his expression solemn. "I just don't want us wasting time with all that mumbo jumbo!"

A little surprised by Dean's negative reaction, Sam nevertheless grinned at his brother's earnest face. "As I was about to say, I've been doing a little research, and I agree."

The sound of fluttering returned, loud enough to intrude on Dean's awareness. Shading his eyes with his hand, he looked up into the too-bright sky. He still couldn't see the birds, but they had to be fairly close. Dean sighed as the noise pulsated through his head, only to be joined by the raucous cawing of crows.

"Dean," Sam said, realizing he'd temporarily lost his brother's attention.

"Yeah." Dean slowly returned his gaze to his brother. "Do you hear that?" He asked as the sound of the birds moved closer still, the dissonant flapping undulating in time with the throbbing in his head.

"Hear what?" Sam asked, puzzled by Dean's actions.

"The birds," Dean said, frowning.

"Well, I've seen the movie," Sam joked, trying to lighten Dean's sour mood.

"Ha ha, very funny," said Dean in a humorless tone.

"So," Sam continued, assuming he had his brother's attention. "There have been Devil sightings for the past two hundred years or so." He rubbed at his itching skin. "I've had a fairly comprehensive look at the sightings, and mostly, they're inconsistent."

Dean scowled, the sound of Sam's scratching setting his teeth on edge like nails on a blackboard. He tore his eyes away from Sam's arm to look at his brother's face. "And what the hells that got to do with the missing men?" He asked testily. _Why won't Sam shut up? Can't he see he's annoying the crap out of me? _He swallowed hard as a wave of hostility towards Sam swept over him.

"Just hear me out, okay?" Sam carried on, seemingly oblivious to Dean's growing irritation. "There are, however, a lot of so-called Jersey Devil sightings where the witnesses have described a similar creature with cloven hooves. There's an awful lot of folklore out there about woodland deities. Satyrs, half-man half-goat, for example. Then there are the numerous witnesses who say they've seen a bat-like creature. There's endless lore about Faeries substituting changelings for children and abducting adults." Sam paused, searching Dean's face for an indication of his thoughts. Getting none, he continued. "The fact that there are so many conflicting reports, make me think we could be dealing with some kind of shapeshifter."

"God Sam, are you trying to make my ears bleed? We're not even there yet and you've already got a list of the usual unusual suspects, ranging from Hellboy to Tinkerbell. " Dean didn't stop the sarcasm edging into his voice, or the snort of mocking laughter that erupted. "Just keep your dumb ideas to yourself, will you?

Save the rest of us from having to listen to your half ass theories."

Sam stared at his brother. Was that supposed to be funny? "Dean, why are you being such an ass?" He asked, smarting at his brother's tone.

Dean was overpowered by feelings of hatred towards his brother that swamped his already overwhelmed senses. He wanted, no, needed to get out of there, away from the oppressive forest, away from the noise, away from Sam!

Unable to stop himself, Dean laughed unpleasantly. "Aww, did I hurt your feelings, Sammy?" His eyes flicked from side to side, as though searching for something. _Where was that buzzing noise coming from?_ "I know, why don't you go tell Bobby. I'm sure he must be waiting for your daily call so you can tell him about everything I've screwed up. Or better still, why don't you just go your own way Sam and relieve me of the burden." Bending, he picked up a handful of small stones, and threw them one by one into the trees. _Why won't those freakin' birds shut up?_

Sam's hands curled into fists. He could hardly believe the way Dean had just spoken to him. Breathing hard, he shouted, "What do you mean by that? I burden you how?"

Dean ignored his brother and continued to throw stones at the seemingly invisible crows.

Sam grabbed Dean's arm and pulled his brother around to face him. "What the hell's wrong with you?"

Dean's head jerked back to his brother and he shook his hand off his arm. "Don't touch me Sam, don't ever touch me." He threatened his brother, his eyes darkening.

Sam dropped his hand, barely containing his anger. "And how exactly do I burden you? C'mon Dean, lets hear what you really think."

"Help me Dean. Save your brother Dean." Dean said mocking Sam's voice, and then his father's. "Well what about me? What about Dean? Just get out of my face, man." He said agitatedly, jabbing his finger at Sam. "God, you're like a leech. I can't move, I can't breathe without you being there. You're sucking the life out of me!"

"Okay, Dean, I get the message." Sam shook his head and raised his hands in surrender, his face flushed red in anger. He used two words to let Dean know just exactly where he should go, and after shooting him a fierce look, turned his back and walked away to crouch near some rocks on the pretense of examining the scree-covered ground.

The sounds of flapping and cawing were now so loud that Dean hardly heard the few remaining stones slip through his fingers and fall noisily to the ground, let alone what Sam had just said.

It could have been because of the look on Sam's face, Dean wasn't sure, but it felt like he'd been slapped awake from a nightmare. Unfortunately it wasn't one of those dreams you forget instantly on waking; he could remember every hateful word he'd just said to Sam. Dean nodded. He didn't need to be able to lip read to understand Sam's two-word response.

"Crap. Sam, I'm sorry. You're right, I am an ass," Dean said apologetically.

Sam remained hunched over. Either he hadn't heard his brother over the ruckus the birds were making or he was deliberately ignoring him. If it was the latter, Dean really couldn't blame him.

"Hey Sammy," Dean said, walking toward his brother on slightly unsteady legs. _God, are those birds ever gonna shut up? _ He wondered as the noise went up another notch. And there was still the underlaying droning buzz which rose in pitch.

Dean stumbled on the loose rocks. Almost losing his footing, he pitched forward before righting himself. The sudden movement sent an intense throbbing through his head, causing lights to flash in front of his eyes. He paused and pressed the heels of his palms gently against his eyes. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he closed his eyes tightly for a few seconds, then opened them and blinked rapidly to clear the little white dots that attempted to obscure his vision.

"Dean?" Sam said when he heard Dean stumble. Rising, he turned and noticed his brother's unsteady movements.

"Dean, for God's sake, what's wrong with you?" Sam asked, exasperated, when he failed to get a response. Dean had been a complete space cadet since the incident with the bird yesterday, and just now, he'd been a total jerk.

A tickling sensation ran from Dean's nose to his upper lip. Before he could raise his hand to his face, he felt rather than heard something drip onto the front of his jacket. Looking down, he saw a small, round dark stain on the material. He wiped the back of his hand over his mouth and felt wetness. He glanced at his hand as he moved it away from his face; it was shaking and smeared with blood . _Crap, this totally sucks, _he thought, wiping the blood from his nose onto his jeans as the unmistakable pounding of a migraine jarred his brain.

"You're bleeding," Sam said apprehensively when he saw his brother's blood-covered hand. Grimacing, he braced himself for the sarcastic response. Surely Dean would thank him for being Captain Obvious.

Dean could see Sam talking to him, could see his brother's lips moving, but the sound of the birds drowned out whatever Sam was saying.

"The birds, Sam, they're deafening me," Dean shouted. With a pained grunt, he clapped his hands over his ears as the noise pierced his already throbbing head.

"What birds? I don't know what you mean." Sam's eyes darted around, searching for whatever was bothering Dean.

"Dean, please answer me." Sam walked toward his brother, his hand outstretched. Dean's skin had turned a ghastly shade of gray, and his whole body was shaking.

Dean looked around anxiously. Something was causing this; something was wrong, very wrong. Even his hands over his ears didn't diminish the sound. His hunter's instincts had kicked in and he knew better than to ignore them, no matter how much his head hurt.

Dean saw a flash of movement in the trees behind his brother, something large and very fast darting from behind one tree to another.

Then Dean caught a glimpse of it. His brain reeled, refusing to acknowledge the message his eyes had sent, and his hands fell limply to his sides. It moved out of the trees and stood across the clearing looking at Dean, its small eyes burning red. Dean stared mutely at his brother, who had his back to it.

Sam stopped dead in his tracks, eyes widening as he watched his brother. Dean's hands shook as he fumbled in his jacket pocket, withdrew his gun, and then pointed it in Sam's direction. Sam knew he'd somehow managed to piss Dean off, but Dean wasn't going to shoot him, right?

Sam drew his gun and spun around. Dean wasn't aiming at him; he was aiming at something behind him.

Sam scoured the trees, searching for whatever was freaking Dean out. There was a slight breeze, which gently swayed the uppermost branches, but no other movements that Sam could discern. He turned back to his brother, a bewildered frown creasing his forehead.

Dean's arms were outstretched, his left hand cradling his right as he tried to steady his shaky aim. Sam could see the desperation etched on his face.

"Move, Sam!" Dean shouted. _Shoot it, shoot it goddammit, _his brain screamed, but his hands refused to function. He was unaware of the blood that ran freely from his nose, spattering the rocky ground near his feet.

"Sit down before you fall down," Sam said, catching him as Dean staggered unsteadily. Dean didn't look at him; his gaze was steadfastly fixed on something Sam couldn't see.

"Sit down," Sam ordered, his hands firmly gripping his brother's shoulders. Dean continued to stare over Sam's shoulder, and Sam had to resist the urge to shake him.

"Can you see it?" Dean whispered.

Dean's arms shook violently as the gun grew heavier with each passing heartbeat, until he could no longer hold it up. He let his arms fall heavily to his sides.

Sam glanced over his shoulder. There was still nothing to see.

"Dean," Sam shouted into his brother's face. Dean slowly focused on him. "Sit down, I'll go take a look," Sam continued as he attempted to get Dean to the ground.

_What is Sam doing? Can't he see it? _Dean thought, struggling against his brother. He felt his knees sag as his vision tilted alarmingly, and he went down hard. On hands and knees he looked across the clearing, but there was nothing to see. Then Sam was pulling him back, sitting him on his backside.

"Stay there," Sam shouted over his shoulder as he sprinted across the clearing. Sam hadn't spotted anything, but he trusted his brother enough to know that he needed to be worried. He entered the primeval forest cautiously, gun drawn and ready.

Dean sat on the ground staring at the rocks, his arms resting on his crooked legs, the gun dangling from his useless fingers.

_Please make them stop. _He screwed his eyes up.

_What did Sam say? _His heart raced.

_Stop, please stop. _

_Where'd he go? _His breath chugged in and out in panic.

He raised his head as he remembered. _Oh God, Sam went into the forest._

"No, Sam! Sammy!" Dean shouted frantically, scrambling back to his feet and racing forward. His brother had gone in, and it was in there. He wouldn't be able to hear if Sam shouted for help.

Dean crashed into the foliage. "Sam, where are you?" Blind panic drove him forward. "Sammy," he yelled as he plunged farther into the forest.

Dean skidded to a sudden stop. _No, this isn't real,_ he thought as it stepped out in front of him. He tried to laugh, but it came out as a strangled sob; he tried to raise the gun, but his arm hung loosely at his side. He backed away from it, his arms flailing as he almost tripped over a tree root which snaked above the soil.

"Sammy," he said quietly as the ground disappeared, and then he was falling.

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N **Special thanks going to my beta's katriel1987 for volunteering to complete the horrible task of turning my ramblings into something readable and to Merisha for the occasional gentle prod (with an even bigger stick with sticky-out spikes!) and providing the spit to make it shiny. Any mistakes are of course my own.

**DISCLAIMER TYPE THINGY:- **Eric Kripke owns everything Supernatural. I'll put them all back when I've finished, I promise.

**Another A/N **Thanks to all for your fabulous reviews, I've loved receiving everyone of them.

The Unusual Suspects

Chapter Four

The slide into the ravine should have been a breeze, and would have been if the ground had been covered with soft, yielding grass. Instead, it was liberally sprinkled with bone-shattering rocks, the jagged edges of which tore viciously at Dean's body as he plummeted down the steep slope. His world became a flashing blur of blue and gray and pain as he slid inexorably downward, taking with him a cascade of stone and grit.

Dean scrabbled at the rocks, bloodying his hands and tearing his nails as he tried to find purchase, or at least something to grab to slow his fall. He let out a cry as his side slammed into an immovable object hard enough to catapult him into the air. Spinning uncontrollably, he landed on his back in the bottom of the gulch with a wet-sounding squelch.

Blinking rapidly, he lay stunned. Familiar sharp pains stabbed at his side when he tried to inhale, so he settled for drawing shallow, irregular breaths as he waited for the world to stop moving. He closed his eyes, but quickly opened them again. That hadn't helped; in fact it had felt like being drunk, minus the fun.

The planet finally slowed to a more tolerable speed, and Dean groaned in pain at the pull on his side as he raised his head to look around. The top of the ravine, from where he had fallen, was a good twenty feet above his head. The occasional tuft of hardy grass and scrub spotted the otherwise barren rocky sides. The bottom was twice again as wide, and covered in a deep layer of stinking sludge and rotting vegetation. The mud was criss-crossed with deep, slow-moving rivulets of brackish water. It was in the watery slime at the edge of one of those rivulets that he now lay, spread-eagled and feeling somewhat bemused.

Dean started in surprise as a cluster of small stones dislodged by his fall skittered down the slope to plop into the mud near the bank. He lay perfectly still; _he had heard the stones falling._ He allowed himself a few seconds to fully realize that he could no longer hear the birds; hell, he could even hear the sound of his own ragged breathing. His ears buzzed slightly, as if he had been listening to too-loud music, and the pain in his head had eased back to a dull throb.

The relief was short-lived as Dean went from zero to panic in less than a millisecond. _Sam! _

"Sam," Dean shouted at the top of his voice, struggling to pull himself out of the mire. The fetid mud sucked at his limbs, reluctant to release him as he twisted and turned in its covetous grip, biting back a groan as his ribs grinded together in his chest, objecting the the movement.

Dean stopped his struggle, realizing he wasn't getting anywhere, other than out of breath. "Sam," he shouted again and lay quietly, waiting for his brother's response.

_Damn it, think,_ he demanded of his befuddled brain. _Calm down and think. _

Had he _really_ seen it? Sam had been standing with him in the clearing, and hadn't seen anything. For that matter, Sam hadn't heard the birds either. Had the undergrowth moved when it had brushed past? Had it left tracks? What sort of hunter was he if he hadn't noticed? If Sam hadn't seen it, or heard the birds, then had any of it been real?

Dean exhaled and let his head fall back into the soft mud as a euphoric sensation washed over him. No, none of it had been real.

The faint snapping of dead wood being stepped on drifted down the side of the ravine.

Zero to full-blown dread in half a millisecond.

He was wrong; he hadn't imagined it. Grunting with effort, he fumbled wildly in the shallow, muddy water for his gun. He'd lost it, again. He gave a brittle laugh as the thought of attaching it to his wrist with a piece of string popped into his mind.

"Sam?" Dean shouted as the rustling of undergrowth became louder. He resumed his frantic struggles to free himself from the mud. "Sammy, that you?" He strained to hear his brother's reply.

"I have to tell you," he shouted breathlessly to whatever was approaching, "I'm not wearing my sacrificial underwear." He laughed humorlessly as he floundered in the mud.

He stopped thrashing around to gaze upward as loose scree plopped into the mud near his outstretched arm. Sam's anxious face peered down at him from the top of the ridge.

"Hey," Dean said nonchalantly, and raised a hand to wave, his relief almost palpable.

"Hey," Sam replied, a perplexed look crossing his face as he wondered how Dean had ended up lying in a stream of mud. "What're you doing?"

Dean pulled a face. "Extreme cordless bungee jumping," he said sarcastically. "Only," he hissed, as he tried to move. "...don't think it's gonna catch on."

"So, do you need me to come down and get you, or are you planning on lying there for the rest of the day?" Sam asked coolly, still aggrieved at Dean's earlier behavior...and what was that he'd been saying about underwear?

"No, no, you wait there; I wouldn't want you to strain anything," Dean replied, an infectious grin spreading across his face.

Sam grinned back. Wait, wasn't he supposed to be pissed at his brother? "I'll get a rope," He said, the smile vanishing. "Stay there, I won't be long." He moved away from the edge.

"Sam," Dean shouted urgently.

Sam's bewildered face reappeared over the ledge. "Yeah?"

"Err, be careful."

Sam frowned, nodded and disappeared from view.

Dean gritted his teeth at the pain that flared from his ribs when he finally managed to roll over. He attempted to crawl, but his arms sank up to the elbows in the mire. Extracting his arms one at a time from the sticky mud, he half crawled and half swam toward the bank. The weight of the mud on his clothes added to the burden of pulling himself along. That, and what he suspected was a cracked rib, made for slow and painful progress.

Dean had almost made it to the bank when his legs sank under a thin layer of mud into a wallow of still water. Kicking as hard as his side would allow, he tried to free his legs. His boots struck a solid object beneath the surface, which he used to propel himself out of the wallow.

The sound of water gurgling and air bubbles popping made Dean look back. He watched in horror as a round object slowly rose out of the mire to stare at him with a pair of cloudy eyes.

The top half of a human head continued to rise, its bloated features distorted and tinged green by gases trapped within it. The head began to tilt back and the upper lip and the top row of teeth cleared the water. The body continued to rise, its head falling back until it almost rested on the mud, its mouth wide open as if screaming.

Dean was unable to tear his eyes away from the body, but what he saw next made him wish he had.

A bare chest popped above the surface and Dean stared at what now appeared to be a very small head. The filthy water trickled from its face, and that was when he realized that its mouth wasn't wide open at all. The lower jaw was completely missing. The tongue lay obscenely along its throat and a flap of skin, which had once been the lips and chin, floated in the oily water at the side of its face.

The body continued to rise, far higher than it should have if it was only floating. It turned slowly toward him.

Dean recoiled, pushing hard with his legs against the mud as he tried to move.

The body continued to roll. A ragged stump where there had once been a right arm flicked over as the body rolled all the way over onto its front.

Pushing up from below, another body surfaced beneath the first. The second body had also been horribly mutilated. The head had been torn from the body. The vertebra protruded from the neck, and the skin surrounding it had shredded as the head had been ripped away, leaving clumps of hairy scalp to fall onto its shoulders. The body's chest cavity gaped open from the sternum downward as though it had been gutted, and a foul-smelling fluid flowed from the body, spreading cancerously across the watery surface toward Dean.

"Shit," Dean gasped, gagging at the stench he could almost taste. There were some sights you should never get used to.

"Dean," Sam shouted. With rope in hand, he ran the last few yards to the edge when he heard Dean's expletive.

"Oh man, that's just nasty!"

"What is it? What can you see?"

"I see dead people!"

_SNSNSNSNSN_

Dean opened the Impala's door and hesitated briefly before slowly getting in. He was too shamefaced to ask Sam to drive, and too sore to worry about the mess he would make on the seat with his muddy clothes. The rope climb up the rocks had caused the ache in his side to spread around to his chest, and he now felt like he was trying to breathe through a tight steel band of pain.

He really should tell Sam. Not just about his side, but what he'd seen, or thought he'd seen. But now, apart from his obvious discomfort, everything felt completely normal, and the recent events had taken on a dreamlike quality. Because that's clearly what it had been, a waking dream. Actually, in hindsight, he felt pretty damn stupid.

He attempted to arrange his facial muscles into the correct order to form a smile, or at least an expression normal enough to deter any probing questions from Sam.

Sam looked at his brother. Although it was relatively gloomy inside the car, he would've had to have been blind not to notice Dean's pained expression, and the bizarre grin which kept appearing.

"What's with the maniacal grin?" Sam asked. The smile had so not worked.

"I think I strained something," Dean replied casually, shifting uncomfortably on the seat.

"What, your sense of humor?" Sam said, shooting daggers at Dean with his eyes.

Dean grinned sheepishly, hoping the daggers Sam had just shot at him would actually hit. He certainly deserved that, or something else sharp and pointy stuck somewhere sensitive.

"Sam, I'm sorry. The way I talked to you back there, you didn't deserve it," Dean said apologetically.

"No, I didn't," Sam agreed. "Dean, you really don't look so hot." He was worried. Ass or not, his brother was behaving oddly. Well, more oddly than usual.

"I looked pretty damn hot the last time I checked, Sammy!" Dean shot Sam a genuine grin.

"'Cause, you know, if you're not well," Sam said, ignoring the wisecrack, "I think we should quit the job."

"I'm fine, Sam. Just had a migraine or something." He'd been a complete tool and didn't deserve his brother's sympathy.

"Maybe I should have left you down there with your new buddies." Sam turned away, frustrated once more by Dean's refusal to talk to him.

Dean leaned forward and turned the ignition. _Tell him, you idiot, just tell him, _he thought as the moment slipped away. The engine rumbled throatily, and the car shook as Dean fed it a spurt of gas.

_SNSNSNSNSN_

Sam had gone to get food, leaving Dean alone in the motel room, and he was pissed. He had deliberately tried to lift his mood on the drive back to the motel. It hadn't been easy; he could have sworn there hadn't been that many potholes in the road on their journey out, and each one had vied for the opportunity to ram his ribs out of his chest. And Sam hadn't once complained about his arm, which must have been hurting like a bitch after he'd helped by hauling on the rope as Dean had climbed it.

Standing in the bedroom, Dean slowly pulled off his filthy shirt. He glanced at the large mirror fixed to the wall; he was dirty, his face streaked with sweat and mud, his hair several shades darker than normal. The lower portion of his face and t-shirt were covered in dried blood from his nosebleed. He looked like he'd just stepped out of a 'B' horror movie. "Brains," he said aloud to his zombie-like reflection. He threw the dirty shirt onto the bed and paused briefly after grabbing the bottom of his t-shirt. He knew this was going to hurt. He grunted aloud as he peeled off his green t-shirt and the pain in his side did a 360-degree wall of death around his ribcage.

Raising his right arm and looking at his reflection in the mirror, he examined his side. The bruises he had sustained following his encounter with the Tailypo were maturing into various shades of black, purple and yellow. Turning a little farther and craning his neck, he tried to see what new damage had been done. Biting his bottom lip, he tentatively ran his left hand over the bumps of his ribs. He was fairly sure he'd broken himself. Touching his side, he groaned in pain. Yup, he'd definitely broken himself, at least twice.

"Crap!" He said aloud when vivid tones of red and purple came into view. Snatching up his dirty shirt and t-shirt from the bed, he stomped into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. After opening the medical kit and taking out two painkillers, he paused, and then took a third pill from the bottle. He grimaced at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. _Don't you dare feel sorry for yourself, _he thought, and returned the extra pill to the bottle.

This was still nothing compared to the wounds on Sam's arms.

Dean gripped the edge of the sink, a wave of nausea washing over him that had little to do with the injury to his side. _Oh God, Sam's arm. That's my fault. I hesitated._ He stared dourly at the backs of his still-bloody hands, as if they were somehow to blame.

_SNSNSNSNSN_

Sam placed the pizza on the table, shrugged off his jacket, and tossed it onto his bed. He furtively watched as Dean moved ponderously around the motel room. His brother looked horribly pale, and definitely had dark smudges under his eyes. Maybe Dean _had_ had a migraine. He'd shown some classic migraine symptoms, but Sam had never heard of hallucinations being one of them.

"Is there anything you want to tell me?" Sam asked as he opened the pizza box.

"Such as?" Dean replied innocently, hanging his brother's jacket on the back of a kitchen chair and smoothing out the creases.

"What happened up at the survey site? What did you see, and why did you draw your gun?" Sam raised his eyebrows and waited for Dean to look at him.

"I didn't expect that."

"Huh?" His brother was making less sense than usual.

"The Spanish inquisition." Dean smiled, but avoided eye contact by studiously picking at a loose thread on the jacket's collar.

"This isn't the time for Monty Python Dean, this is serious." Sam huffed, glaring at his brother.

"C'mon Sammy, there's always time for Python." Dean's attempt at laughter failed as he caught the look on his brother's face.

"Well?" Sam tried to keep his tone even but took his jacket from the back of the chair and threw it back onto his bed.

"I've already said, Sam. I had a migraine," Dean said defensively, realizing his brother wasn't going to be distracted.

"So, you tried to shoot your migraine?"

"No." Dean rolled his eyes heavenward.

"Dean, migraines don't make you see things. Hear things, yes; see things, no."

"I didn't say I saw _things_. There was just one thing." _Dammit._ Dean bit his tongue; the last comment had slipped out unintentionally. Maybe Sam wouldn't notice.

"So you _are_ seeing things?"

"I wouldn't say that." Of course Sam noticed.

"So, what would you say?"

"Er, I had a mild visual malfunction." Dean forced the smile back onto his face, the same one he'd tried earlier and had failed so miserably with.

Sam shook his head and said nothing, not fooled for one second by his brother's fake grin.

Dean squirmed uncomfortably in the silence before continuing. "I don't know, Sam," he said, exasperated. "The light in the forest, well, it was weird, and I thought I saw something, but I couldn't have. Honestly, there's nothing wrong."

"Meaning there _is_ something wrong, but you're not going to tell me what." Sam wasn't willing to give up quite yet, and he stared at his brother as though he was trying to see inside him.

"Okay, I saw the Jersey Devil," Dean said without emotion as he met and held Sam's gaze.

"God, it's like talking to a brick wall!" Sam turned and threw his arms into the air in frustration.

"I'm sorry," Dean said. He couldn't help but notice his brother's tenseness. Maybe it was the way Sam was grinding his teeth that alerted him.

"Dean?"

"I don't know what else to say, Sam."

"Fine, you had a migraine." Sam stepped back a pace and folded his arms. He wasn't getting anywhere, and he could see that Dean was getting agitated. "So why are you holding your side?" Sam nodded toward Dean's arm, which he had unconsciously wrapped around his damaged ribs.

"It's, um, it's nothing to worry about." Dean dropped his arm to his side.

"For God's sake, Dean!"

"Okay, a bruised rib. Happy now?" Dean replied while Sam still had teeth to grind.

"Let me see." Sam insisted, because Dean had _always _been one hundred percent honest about his injuries, not.

"I don't see the point of you looking at it," Dean said, moving away from his brother.

Sam took two steps toward Dean, who continued to back away.

"What? You got healing hands now?" Dean struggled not to smirk at his brother's determination.

"Just show me, Dean. Don't forget, I know what you're like. If you lost a leg, you'd say it was just a scratch. For all I know, your rib is probably sticking out of your side right now. So show me."

"All right, all right," Dean agreed, raising his hands in surrender. "After we've eaten."

Sam sighed and sat down. He'd won that round, and he would make sure that Dean let him look at his side, even if it meant beating Dean into submission and handcuffing him to a chair.

_SNSNSNSNSN_

"So?" Dean asked after swallowing a mouthful of scarcely warm pizza.

"So, what?" Sam flicked a wizened-looking olive off his slice.

"I'd like to hear your theories?"

Sam looked dubiously at Dean, not sure if he was going to get his head bitten off.

"I'm serious," Dean said contritely. "You really think it's a shapeshifter?"

Sam shrugged and swallowed. "Honestly, Dean, I just don't know. Whatever it was literally tore those men's bodies to pieces. I'm not sure that quite fits into my shapeshifter theory."

"Well, at least we've got two of our three missing persons."

"Yeah," Sam agreed. "Lucky for us they hadn't been discovered, otherwise the police would have been all over the site."

"Yeah, I guess that's luck of some sort," Dean said unenthusiastically.

"Are you sure that leaving the bodies there was a good idea?" Sam asked, wrinkling his nose at the memory.

"Absolutely." Dean nodded and pulled a disdainful face, his slice of pizza hanging limply from his fingers, suddenly not so hungry anymore. "Man, I tell you, it was like that scene out of _Poltergeist_, except, well...the bodies were still oozing." He shuddered and dropped the pizza slice back into the box before continuing. "And we didn't really get a good look around. Maybe whatever did it will go back there."

"I think we should go talk to the guy who gave the devil sighting interview to the paper. He lives..."

"Don't tell me," Dean interrupted, placing his fingertips against his temple and rolling his eyes back. "The voices are coming through. _Yes, yes...I hear you_...His name is..._Yes..._Bob Gates..._Yes_...He lives in the forest..._Yes_...in a creepy-ass cabin on his own with seventeen cats..._Yes_...he smells funny and the locals call him Weird Bob!" His face cracked into a broad grin.

Sam looked slightly stunned for a beat before he noticed the newspaper he'd bought yesterday lying open on the table, the article on page 4 uppermost. Dean had obviously read the story in full. Sam grinned at his brother's impromptu performance.

They were interrupted by a light tapping on the door.

"Do the voices tell you who that is?" Sam asked, canting his head.

Dean shrugged, then gasped. That hadn't been a good idea.

Still grinning, Sam rose and covered the space to the door in two long-legged strides.

Dean sat and watched as his brother pulled the door open. Swinging inward, it obscured Dean's view of the outside. Sam stepped forward until all that was visible was his left hand, which held onto the inside door handle.

"What are you doing..." Sam said before the rest of his sentence came to an abrupt, muffled halt and his hand slid from view.

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N **Special thanks going to my beta's katriel1987 for volunteering to complete the horrible task of turning my ramblings into something readable and to Merisha for the occasional gentle prod and providing the spit to make it shiny. Any mistakes are of course my own.

**DISCLAIMER TYPE THINGY:- **Eric Kripke owns everything Supernatural. I'll put them all back when I've finished, I promise.

The Unusual Suspects

Chapter Five

Dean sprang to his feet. His heart gave an unpleasant lurch and tried to lodge itself in his throat, then settled instead on hammering painfully against his battered ribs. Pausing only to grab Sam's gun from the small bedside table, he rushed to the door and flung it wide open, the gun held steady in his grip.

Sam was standing just outside the doorway, almost doubled over at the waist. A pair of dark hands with vivid purple nails had a death grip on his upper body and arms.

"What the hell?" Dean exclaimed, watching his brother's half-hearted attempts to free himself.

Sam's face was buried in a much shorter woman's chest, his arms flapping feebly at his sides like he was some kind of demented penguin.

"Missouri!" Dean said brusquely, dragging his eyes up to the face of the woman trying to smother his brother.

Missouri released Sam's head from her ample bosom and smiled serenely at Dean's deadly glare.

Sam stood upright, looking slightly ruffled, his face tinged pink from lack of oxygen and the embarrassment of a close encounter with Missouri's lady lumps.

"Sam?" Dean shot a disbelieving look at his brother. Why the hell had he called Missouri?

"Dean?" Sam returned the look. Missouri was the last person he would have expected his brother to contact.

Missouri stood quietly, resisting the urge to laugh as she watched the two men trading glares with each other in lieu of conversation.

"Missouri," stated Missouri. "Well, now that the introductions are over, is anyone going to invite me in?" She asked as she barged into their room, not waiting for a formal invitation.

Smiling, Sam followed Missouri into the room. He was genuinely pleased to see their old family friend, whereas Dean looked like he wanted to shoot someone, and either of them would do.

"Nice room, boys," Missouri said sarcastically as she stood in the center of the room, turning and taking in the decor. "Very pink! Now Dean, are you going to put the gun down or are you really planning to use it?" She glared at Dean until he turned a similar shade to Sam. Cursing under his breath, he put the gun back on Sam's bedside table.

The brothers stood speechless, both at a loss for words as they puzzled over Missouri's sudden appearance, and annoyed with each other for failing to discuss her invitation.

"So, I expect you're wondering why I'm here," Missouri said, looking from one brother to the other as it became clear that neither was going to ask the obvious question.

Sam shrugged dramatically and Dean rolled his eyes.

"You can both stop with the shrugging and eye rolling," Missouri said sharply, waving her finger between Sam and Dean. "Neither of you knew I was coming, so knock it off!"

She turned and sat on one of the two chairs in front of the TV, then planted a knowing look on Dean.

"I had a dream about you, Dean," she said enigmatically.

"Understandable," Dean said, a smug look flitting across his face.

"Don't flatter yourself, Dean; you're not that irresistible," Missouri said haughtily. "Sam, hon, is there any chance of getting some water? It's been a long journey and I haven't exactly been bowled over by the hospitality so far!"

"Sorry, of course." Sam flushed over her less than hospitable welcome. Rattled, he took a small bottle out of the tiny refrigerator and handed it to Missouri, having first loosened the top.

"Well, it's a long way to come for a social call, so when are you leaving?" Dean asked churlishly, folding his arms across his throbbing chest and rocking slightly as he shifted his weight from one leg to the other. The last thing he needed was Missouri poking and prodding in his head; he already felt foolish, and didn't need her to confirm it.

"Thank you, Dean, you've made me feel so special." Missouri took a sip of water before continuing. "And I'm not."

"What's going on, Missouri?" Sam asked, flashing a warning look at his brother.

"I've already said," she replied, sounding jaded, as she settled back into the chair. "I had a dream about Dean, and it wasn't good."

"Maybe you should see a shrink," Dean suggested.

"That's enough, Dean," Sam said warningly.

"Well, c'mon..." Dean pulled a face and made an exaggerated gesture with his hands.

"It's seen you, Dean," Missouri interrupted.

"I have no idea what you're talking about." Dean sounded a little more defensive than necessary.

"If you shut up for a moment, maybe Missouri will tell us," Sam said, hoping to stop Dean before matters got out of hand. "Just relax ," he added in a more placatory tone, as he sensed his brother's awkwardness, but still shot Dean a hard stare nevertheless.

Missouri sighed before continuing. "Two nights ago I had a dream that something had awoken." She paused to take a sip of water.

Sam sat down in the chair next to Missouri; Dean sat stiffly on the hardback chair at the table and stared at a congealed string of melted cheese that had welded itself onto the side of the pizza box.

"I'm not sure that _awoken_ is right," Missouri said thoughtfully. "It's more like ... become sentient."

"Missouri, please," Sam prompted. Although he was extremely fond of her, she certainly knew how to milk a moment. Probably a product of her psychic/fortune-telling business, where a certain amount of showboating was desired, if not demanded by her clients.

Dean picked at the hardened cheese, as if prying it away from the cardboard was absolutely the most important matter in his universe.

"Dean." Missouri swiveled in the chair to get a clearer look at him.

Dean raised his eyes and looked guardedly at the woman who seemed to know his innermost thoughts.

"Just look at you," she continued as she appraised his unhealthy appearance. "When was the last time you got a good night's sleep?"

"Just last night," Dean lied. So what if every time he'd closed his eyes last night, he'd been plagued by the memory of the crow plastered across the windshield? So what if the sickening sound of a few ounces of skin, bone and feather hitting a ton of metal kept replaying in his ears? So what if the memory had left him drenched in sweat and nauseated?

"And how long have you been having the headaches and nosebleeds?"

Dean bit uneasily at his bottom lip and resisted the urge to speak. That cheese urgently needed his attention.

"They started two days ago, didn't they," Missouri asked rhetorically. "And if I'm not mistaken, you've heard things. Seen things too, I bet."

"How did you..." Dean began, skepticism darkening his face. He had already dismissed the thing he thought he'd seen in the forest; it was too crazy to even consider.

Missouri grinned and took another sip of water.

"Missouri, if you know something please tell us," Sam implored. "'Cause we've got nothing."

Dean stared at the pizza box. If he didn't peel that cheese off in the next thirty seconds, the universe would cease to exist.

"It's old. Very old." Missouri turned sharply toward Dean. "Yes, Dean, even older than me."

She paused as if lost in the thread of her own thoughts. The pause turned into a minute, which turned into two.

"I believe whatever it is, it's feeding off you, Dean, feeding off your emotions," Missouri said suddenly, causing them both to jump in their seats.

Dean snorted derisively. "I might've mentioned to a Wendigo one time that I taste good, but I think I'd notice if someone was helping himself to my tender white bits!"

"I said feeding off you, not eating you, and it's not a someone," Missouri snapped. "It's a something. But, I—I'm not sure what it is...yet." Her voice trailed away.

"Helpful," Dean rolled his eyes, tiring of the conversation, and managing to irritate himself with apocalyptic cheese, he slammed the top of the pizza box shut, sending it spinning across the table to land loudly on the floor.

"Dean, you're so full of bad karma, you're vulnerable to anything that needs a top up of negativity."

"I'm not negative." Dean turned and grimaced at the twinge of pain from his side. "Sam, tell her." He requested moral backup.

Missouri's eyes widened at Dean's denial.

"Belligerent, intolerant, hostile, irritable, uncommunicative." She counted off his character traits on her fingers. "And that was just in the last five minutes!" She pursed her lips and then asked, "Did I miss anything, Sam?"

"Nope, that's pretty much Dean on a normal day." Sam took the opportunity to get in a dig at his brother.

"What's this, pick on Dean day? Thanks, Sam!" Dean's eyes flashed with hurt as he glowered at his brother.

Sam flicked his eyebrows up at Missouri in an 'I told you so' motion.

"I'll tell you what I told Sam," Dean said resignedly, seeing as Sam had joined Missouri's gang against him. "Migraine, nosebleed, didn't feel well, end of story." He sat back in his chair, folded his arms and then unfolded them again, and finally settled on drumming his fingertips on the tabletop.

"Dean said he could hear birds," Sam said hesitantly, glancing at Dean. "When we were in the forest, he asked if I could hear them."

"And could you?" Missouri asked.

Sam shook his head and looked away guiltily. He could feel Dean's eyes burning holes into him. He felt like he had somehow betrayed Dean by telling Missouri, but it was evident that Dean didn't intend to tell her anything.

"Dean," Missouri said.

Dean scowled at her.

"What kind of birds did you hear?"

The question took Dean by surprise, and without hesitation he replied, "Crows."

"Ahh, the good old harbingers of death," Missouri said almost cheerfully. "Well, that wasn't too painful, was it, Dean?" She smiled. "Now are you gonna tell us what you saw?"

"No, and I'd prefer for you to stop patronizing me," Dean replied hostilely, and concentrated on stopping his fingers from fidgeting. His left knee bounced up and down instead. He really wished that pizza box was back on the table.

"Dean, you really need to let us know exactly what you saw," Sam said.

Dean sighed as deeply as his ribs would allow. "I saw the Jersey Devil," he said carefully, as though the words were wrapped in razor wire.

"No more jokes, Dean, please," Sam said, frustration clear on his face and in the tone of his voice.

"I'm not joking, Sam. It had wings too." He flashed a cocky grin at his brother, but it had no levity behind it.

"Goddammit Dean, for once in your life will you just let someone help you!" Sam raised his voice angrily.

"Sam," Missouri said gently as she looked at Sam's drawn face. She had been paying close attention to the few words Dean had spoken, and saw the darkness which made his usually bright eyes appear dull and lifeless.

"What?" Sam snapped uncharacteristically.

"Leave Dean be." Missouri kept her voice calm as Sam's frustration began to bubble over into anger.

Dean shot Missouri a guarded but appreciative look.

"Dean, don't trust everything you see," Missouri said cryptically. "Remember, I'm just here to help."

Deans forehead creased in puzzlement before he said, "I don't need your help, or anybody else's."

"Well, you need it and you're gonna get it whether you like it or not." Missouri rose to her feet. "I'm tired. Sam, look after your pig-headed brother."

"I'll try, but he can be difficult sometimes," Sam said as he gave Missouri a quick squeeze goodbye.

"Hey, I'm right here!" Dean stood with his arms outstretched, miffed.

"Dean." Missouri approached Dean and stopped in front of him, just close enough to make him to consider taking a step back. "Please be careful," she said as she clasped Dean's forearms tightly. Her dark eyes looked tired, but there was another expression there that Dean hadn't seen before, a look that made his breath catch in his throat. She was afraid...afraid for him.

"Okay," Dean said softly.

_SNSNSNSNSN_

Bob Gates's Cabin

Set back from the road, the lone cabin nestled in a clearing between the tall regimental trunks of mature pine trees. Late afternoon sunlight tinted its walls a pale yellow, and a light breeze carried with it the clean smell of pine needles and a slight hint of gasoline as they left the Impala at the roadside.

"Well, not quite what we were expecting," Sam said as their boots crunched over the cracked, compacted dirt path. "Maybe the creepy-ass cabin is behind the one off the candy box."

Pools of dappled sunlight covered the path, and the faint drone of buzzing insects was the only sound they could hear other than their footsteps.

Dean made a quick movement to grab Sam when he stumbled slightly, as if he had tripped over one of his own shoelaces. Dean's quick motion ended with a sharp reminder from his damaged side. He might not have crushed his ribcage, but his battered ribs just weren't willing to be treated like this anymore. Grunting in pain, he stopped and fought against the urge to puke.

It was definitely time for more painkillers, Dean thought, whether he deserved them or not.

"You okay?" Sam asked guiltily when he heard Dean's grunt. He'd forgotten that Dean had been clutching his side earlier, and with Missouri's sudden appearance, his earlier threat to beat Dean into submission had slipped his mind.

"Yeah," Dean lied.

As they drew closer, they saw that the cabin wasn't quite as perfect as it had first appeared. The exterior was in need of a fresh coat of paint and the garden, though free of weeds, was un-planted. It wasn't quite a Kinkade masterpiece, but it was a long way from fitting Dean's creepy-ass cabin prediction.

The insect whine became louder as they approached. Sam looked at Dean apprehensively; Dean shrugged on the side that didn't hurt. As the brothers drew closer, the mosquito-like whine gradually deepened into the ominous and unmistakable drone of a chainsaw.

"Thank God we're not in Texas!" Dean said, grinning at Sam.

"There's nothing unusual about someone using a chainsaw in the middle of a forest," Sam said uneasily, trying to convince himself that it _really_ wasn't unusual. Dean's prediction of 'Weird Bob' popped into his head, making him wary.

Dean paused, considering what Sam had just said. "No, I guess not," he said, nodding in agreement. That was true; however, he'd noticed that the chainsaw's pitch hadn't changed since they'd heard it. Either something had happened to its operator, or someone had seen their approach and was waiting for them. Sam's body language confirmed that he'd noticed too.

"You take the front; I'll go around the back," said Dean. "You got your gun?"

"Yeah." Sam pulled the gun from his pocket and flicked the safety off before returning it. Dean took the already loaded shotgun from the canvas bag and attempted to conceal it discreetly under his jacket. After all, they were only there to ask a few innocent questions.

"Keep your eyes open and be careful," Dean warned. With one glance back at Sam, he made his way toward the side of the cabin.

_SNSNSNSNSN_

"Hello!" Dean shouted as the sound of the chainsaw became increasingly louder. "Hello, anybody home?" There was no need for stealth; the opportunity for surprise had been lost to both sides. "Bob?" Dean's eyes flicked over the black windows of the cabin. The interior was too dark for him to see anything inside.

Dean reached the end of the cabin and paused to grip the shotgun's stock before stepping forward.

The back yard was a large expanse of gray dirt with sparse tufts of brownish grass clinging desperately to life around the edges, where the forest butted up against the chicken wire fencing. A number of the surrounding pines looked deceased, their dead brown branches hung limply on the trunks, where others, had fallen off and were littering the ground around the edges of the yard. A small brick building stood halfway down one side; it looked suspiciously like an outhouse. A dilapidated wooden shed was located at the bottom of the yard; its door sat at an outlandish angle, barely attached to its hinges.

The acrid fumes from the chainsaw's exhaust drifted toward Dean as he looked around the yard for its owner. The chainsaw coughed and spluttered as though it was about to cut out before it revved back to life. Dean walked farther into the yard; the sound had drifted from directly behind the cabin.

"Hello!" He shouted again. "Pizza for Mr Leatherface!" He figured it was only common courtesy to let the chainsaw-wielding maniac know he was prepared to put up a fight. Rounding the corner, he saw the chainsaw resting on its side on top of a pile of freshly cut logs. There was a stick jammed into the trigger mechanism, holding the throttle wide open, and it vibrated precariously, threatening to fall to the ground. Its operator was nowhere in sight.

_SNSNSNSNSN_

Sam climbed the wooden steps, which creaked and groaned in protest under his weight. He paused when he heard Dean shouting his greeting, and then, favoring his left hand, tapped smartly on the door.

"Hello!" Sam shouted and knocked again. Standing back from the door, he waited for a response.

Hearing none, he moved to the window and tried to see inside. It was too dark to make out any detail. He pressed his face against the glass and, cupping his hands to the sides of his face, peered into the gloom of the cabin's interior.

He could just make out the square shape of an old overstuffed leather armchair. A tall gray metal cupboard sat off to the left, and a large stack of newspapers lay piled up to one side of it. A dusty television set was directly in front of the window. Fingerprints had disturbed the dust on the top, where the operator had rested his hand on it when it had been turned on and off. A cable ran through one of the gaps between the timbers to the outside. Sam took a step back and leaned over the railing to see the cable snake up the side of the cabin to a satellite dish, which appeared to be made from flatted beer cans and fixed to the exterior with a nail and a wire coat-hanger.

An almost inaudible creak from behind him alerted Sam to the fact that he was no longer alone. He froze, off balance; the majority of his weight lay on the railing, and there was no way to get to his gun without making an obvious move toward it.

He tried to shift his weight back to both feet without telegraphing his intentions to whomever was behind him. It was an impossible feat. Just as he was about to spin around, Sam felt something jab him sharply in the kidneys.

"Don't you move a goddamn muscle," a gravelly voice ordered, grinding something hard into the small of Sam's back.

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N **Special thanks going to my beta's katriel1987 for volunteering to complete the horrible task of turning my ramblings into something readable and to Merisha for the occasional gentle prod and providing the spit to make it shiny. Any mistakes are of course my own.

**DISCLAIMER TYPE THINGY:- **Eric Kripke owns everything Supernatural. I'll put them all back when I've finished, I promise.

The Unusual Suspects

Chapter Six

"I _really_ hope that's a gun," Sam said as soon as he'd managed to work up enough spit to cover his tongue, using bravado, and a Dean inspired response to cover the shiver of panic that had just crawled down his spine. He grunted when he received another hard prod in the kidneys for his smart-ass remark, and raised his hands to stop himself from falling face first into the window he had just been peering into.

"Drop it," Dean's voice boomed from behind them. Panting slightly from his dash around the building, he leveled his shotgun at the man holding the weapon against Sam's back.

"No," Gravel-voice said, giving Dean a swift but wide-eyed glance as he attempted to step into the non-existent space between Sam and the cabin.

"Excuse me?" Dean said in amazement. Surely the man had seen the shotgun pointed at him? Dean rested the stock firmly against his shoulder and moved steadily to the side. If he really had to shoot, he didn't want to hit Sam, even if the cartridge was only filled with rock salt.

"I said no," Gravel replied, his voice quavering.

"I really think you should," Dean said calmly as he stopped opposite Sam and his assailant. A nervous man with a gun at his brother's back was not an ideal situation. Dean would have preferred a psycho killer ghost any day.

"Why?" Gravel asked. _Is he blind?_ Dean wondered. _Or just plain weird?_

" 'Cause mine's bigger," Dean said as his finger tightened on the trigger. "So just drop the stick."

Sam shot a baffled look over his shoulder. Had he really heard that right? "Dude, you just said drop the _stick._"

"Of course I did," Dean said, and watched Sam suddenly relax; why the hell was he doing that when he was being held at gunpoint? "He's holding a stick on you, and it's...a...stick!"

He lowered the shotgun, not believing what he could see. "What the hell's wrong with you? I could have shot you," he said, his voice rising a few octaves.

"My lucky day, then," Gravel said, taking a step away from Sam, his foot-long stick now pointing at the dusty wooden porch.

Dean coughed to clear his throat before continuing; he hoped the next words out of his mouth would be audible to humans, and not just dogs and bats.

"Are you wei..." Dean stopped himself. "Bob Gates?" He figured Bob to be in his late fifties, dark hair graying at the temples, slim build, wearing jeans and a thick twill jacket, nothing remarkable or unusual about him.

Bob gave Dean a hostile look, which wasn't surprising, since Dean was still pointing the barrel of his shotgun at him.

"Dean," Sam said, looking pointedly at the gun.

"Oh yeah, sorry," Dean said, lowering the gun. Bob continued to glare at Dean as Sam walked down the steps to join his brother.

"We're sorry. Look, we got off on the wrong foot. Are you Mr. Gates?" Sam said, taking over the questioning, since Dean had clearly lost Bob's trust.

"What if I am?" Bob asked guardedly.

"We're journalists with a national paper, and we're interested in an interview you gave recently." Sam began to reach into his pocket to show a fake ID card. "We might be able to offer you..."

"Liar," Bob interrupted. "And keep your hands where I can see them," he added, raising his stick.

"Sorry," Sam said, abandoning his attempt to get the ID. "We're not here to hurt you."

"I wasn't born yesterday," Bob said, jabbing the stick in Sam's direction. "What do you think, I'm stupid or something? Or do you expect me to believe that the world is in such a sorry ass state that we need armed response journalists?" He shook his head. "No way you're reporters."

"Okay, okay, just stop waving the stick around! You...uh...could take somebody's eye out with it," Dean said, and smiled weakly. He'd just become his father in one sentence.

"Hey, I'm not the one with the loaded weapon. What are you, some kind of homicidal maniac?" Bob asked, brandishing his stick at Dean.

"I'll tell you why we're here," Sam said, taking a step forward. "Dean, put the shotgun away."

"Sam." Dean gave his brother a warning look.

"We're hunters," Sam continued. "We read the interview you gave, and we've come here to hunt the Jersey Devil."

Bob threw his head back and made an odd wheezing sound. It was only when tears started to run down his ruddy cheeks that the brothers realized he was laughing.

"What's so funny?" Dean asked. He hadn't been prepared for that reaction.

"Sweet Lord Jesus, I can't believe you really fell for that."

"What do you mean?" Sam asked.

"It was a tall tale. Honestly, you'd have to be crazy to believe in all that stuff."

"I don't understand, why would you make up something like that?" Sam asked, his forehead creased in puzzlement.

"It's none of your business, but I like you; you've got an honest face," Bob said, looking at Sam. "Your friend there, giving me the evil eye, him I don't like so much." He glared at Dean as he sat down on the top porch step and lit a cigarette. "But hell, I feel kind of responsible for your wasted trip. I did it for the money, simple as that." He took a deep pull on the cigarette and blew smoke out in a thin stream. "Every time a devil sighting hits the papers, we're flooded with sightseers and wannabe hunters, which is where yours truly comes in." He held up his hands before continuing. "Yeah, I know, a little mercenary, but it doesn't hurt anybody, and it puts food on the table for a lot of folks around here."

"So, you've never actually seen anything," Sam said, shaking his head in disbelief.

"Oh, there's plenty to see, just no Jersey Devils." Bob chuckled as he ground the half-smoked cigarette under his boot.

"So why did you pull a stick on my brother?" Dean shook his head and added quietly for Sam's benefit, "That wasn't a sentence I thought I'd be using when I got up this morning."

"Would you rather I'd pulled a gun on him?"

"I could have shot you!"

Bob shook his head. "I don't think so."

"What makes you so sure?"

"I was watching you," Bob said as he absentmindedly traced squashed-looking circles in the dust with his stick. "You only armed yourselves when you got to my front door. If you'd wanted to take me, you would have armed yourselves earlier." He raised his brown eyes and looked at Sam. "Yes, I know you've got a gun in your pocket too!"

"Why did you just tell us you made it all up? We could have been paying customers for all you knew," Sam said.

"People who want to hire my services don't show up armed, and then tell great big lies!"

Sam nodded. That was actually a pretty reasonable argument.

"You said you were watching us. Why?" Dean asked, and then, recalling the rigged chainsaw, added, "And how did you know we were here?"

"I set a trap," Bob said. "A fairly basic one, but it obviously worked." He smiled smugly as he looked between the two men in front of him. "Yep, a bell attached to a piece of string, never fails."

Dean jabbed Sam's side with his elbow and mouthed 'It was you', recalling Sam's earlier trip despite his yeti sized feet. It took all of Sam's patience not to sigh out loud.

Sam turned back to Bob, but before he could ask him why, Dean continued.

"That's a little amateurish for a hunter, isn't it?"

Bob scowled, clearly offended at having his professionalism doubted, and continued to trace semi-circles on top of his flattened circles in the dirt, ignoring Dean's question.

"So, why set a trap?" Sam asked before Dean had a chance to put his foot in his mouth again.

"There's a guy, name of Spencer Kane, who's been stealing food from my cabin. I wanted to stop him." Bob paused, aware of the astonished looks he was receiving. "It was a trap to catch him."

Dean stepped forward; he was familiar with that name. "Sam," he said, and indicated with a nod of his head that he wanted to speak with his brother privately.

"Excuse us, please..." Sam said, letting the sentence trail off with a half-smile and pointing at Dean as he walked a few yards away with his brother.

"Hey, I just wanted to stop him; it wasn't like I was gonna shoot 'n' stuff him, or anything weird," Bob shouted at their retreating backs.

_SNSNSNSNSN_

"Spencer Kane is one of our missing guys!" Dean said animatedly as soon as they were far enough away not to be overheard. "I sort of liberated their files from the site office. He was the first one to go missing."

"I wonder how Bob knows it's him," Sam said, scratching his arm. He quickly stopped when Dean glanced at his fingers; he was anxious to avoid a repeat of the morning's confrontation, whatever had been its cause.

"You better ask Weird Bob that question. I would, but I don't think he likes me!" Dean had an incredulous expression on his face.

"He doesn't seem that weird to me," Sam said in Bob's defense.

"Dude, he set a trap with a piece of string and a bell, left a chainsaw running to draw me around the back, and then, if I need to remind you, he stuck you in the back with a stick!" Dean's eyebrows, which had been gradually creeping up his forehead, almost disappeared into his hairline.

"He was only protecting himself and his property, Dean. It's a perfectly normal thing to do."

"Well, yeah...if your name's Weird Bob McWeirdy and you live in Weirdsville, it probably is!"

"Dude, that's not even close!" Sam said, jutting out his jaw as he turned to walk back to Bob.

"Not even close to what?" Dean asked in a stage whisper.

"Close to being funny!"

_SNSNSNSNSN_

"Sorry about that," Sam said, casually scratching his head as he reclaimed his earlier position. "You mentioned that a guy called Spencer Kane has been stealing food. How do you know that's his name?"

"So you're cops now, are you?" Bob said, his voice dripping sarcasm.

"No," Sam said awkwardly. "It's just that...he's a friend of ours, and he's been missing for a few months now."

Bob looked skeptical and said nothing.

"Okay, I can see you're a shrewd man. The truth is we're private detectives, we've been hired to find him," he paused. "Please, his wife and family are frantic," Sam said, raising his eyebrows in encouragement.

"You know he's gone feral, like a pack of chipmunks on a Saturday night!" Bob said, and then stopped to weigh up the men in front of him. He hadn't believed a word they'd just told him.

Sam cast a sideways glance at Dean, who was scarcely containing a smirk over the chipmunk reference.

A greedy look swept over Bob's face. "He must have stolen...um...about eighty dollars worth of food, by my reckoning."

"How can you be so sure it's him?" Sam asked.

"Yeah," Bob said thoughtfully, looking at the sky. "Could even be as much as...oh, a hundred dollars worth." He stood, dusted off his pants, and looked hopefully at Sam.

"Sam, why don't you offer to compensate Mr. Gates for his... inconvenience," Dean suggested from behind, barely stifling a laugh.

Sam patted the sides of his jacket and ran his hands over his jeans before turning back to Dean. Grinning, he said, "Crap, it looks like I left my wallet back at the office!"

Dean's lips narrowed until they nearly disappeared in a thin white line. He fished out his wallet and pulled out a roll of ten dollar bills, which he counted out and reluctantly pressed into Bob's outstretched right hand.

Bob stood on the bottom step, his left hand delving deep into his jeans pocket to extract a small credit card-sized piece of plastic.

"Like I said," he stated, handing an identity card to Sam, "the guy's name is Spencer Kane."

"Do you have any idea where he is?" Dean asked, looking over Sam's shoulder at the somber man pictured on the slightly blurred security pass.

"No," Bob replied. "But he turns up every other day. He'll be here sometime today."

"You have no objection to us hanging around, then?" Sam asked.

"You guys can do what you want, just don't get in my way."

"What do you mean, get in your way?" Sam asked, alarmed at the thought of Bob putting himself in danger, or them for that matter.

"I'm going hunting."

"Sir, I'm sorry, but we can't let you go after that man," Sam said, drawing himself up to his full height. He casually looked over his shoulder and, with an almost imperceptible tilt of his head, beckoned his brother to come forward to assist. Dean gave him a 'you're on your own' look.

"I'm not hunting for him!" Bob said, laughing at the idea.

"So what is it you're hunting for?"

Bob leaned toward Sam and whispered conspiratorially, "I'm after the Aliens," and indicated heavenward with an upward roll of his eyes and tilt of his head.

_SNSNSNSNSN_

2 hours later

"You've been pretty quiet," Sam said, looking over at his brother as he crumpled up the paper bag that had contained his lunch, and, throwing it into a larger bag with the other trash left from his impromptu picnic, dropped it onto the backseat. Dean had hardly said more than half a dozen words while they'd sat watching and waiting. The silence had spanned enough time for the first signs of twilight to send long fingers of shadow racing across the dirt toward the Impala, time enough to engulf the cabin in deep shadow.

Dean sat cradling a bottle of water, staring vacantly at the small square of duct tape still stuck to the windshield. Unwisely, he'd substituted painkillers for food, and was now drifting in a pleasant but chemically induced buzz.

"Hey," Sam said when he failed to get a response. "Dean?" He raised his voice.

Dean turned slowly toward his brother, his eyes slightly unfocused for a few beats as he unconsciously rubbed his hand along his ribs.

"Well, your voices were right on one count," Sam said, trying to sound cheerful.

Dean raised his eyebrows questioningly; he wasn't sure what Sam was talking about. He yawned for what must have been the fiftieth time in the last hour. Worryingly, his jaw had begun to click as though it were threatening to lock mid-gape.

"Bob is definitely weird," Sam said.

"Crazy as a bag of bats," Dean agreed with a hint of a smile, beginning to tease the duct tape away from the windshield. He just wanted to make sure the hole was actually there.

"Box of frogs," Sam corrected.

"What?" Dean said, temporarily distracted by his task.

"The saying goes, 'mad as a box of frogs'."

"Whatever," Dean replied, pressing the tape back over the hole. He took a sip of the lukewarm water and stared at the cabin, waiting for Spencer Kane to appear.

"Have you thought about what Missouri had to say?" Sam asked hesitantly.

"Man, she gets more like that little creepy-ass woman from Poltergeist every time I see her," Dean said, then laughed half-heartedly. The truth was, he'd hardly thought of anything else for the past one hundred and twenty-eight minutes—he glanced at his watch—and forty-two seconds.

Sam smiled, relieved that Dean appeared to want to talk about what had happened earlier.

"So...uh, what did you think about what she said, you know, about something feeding off you?"

"I don't know, Sam; I guess it was a bit of a shock to be told somethings munching on your mojo," Dean said. His eyes shone almost feverishly in the waning daylight.

"Dean."

"Yeah."

"What was going on with you? What did you see in the forest that freaked you out so much?" Sam chewed his upper lip. He knew that had been a loaded question; Dean would either shut him down or yell at him.

Dean exhaled slowly, resigned. He'd been waiting for the interrogation, and had known it was only going to be a matter of time before Sam crumbled.

Sam stared at Dean's profile. The slight crease in his forehead was the only sign that he had heard Sam's question.

"I've already told you," Dean said carefully.

"Don't," Sam warned, his body instantly stiffening, muscles rigid enough to snap. "Don't start with the Jersey Devil thing again."

"But that's what I saw, Sam," Dean stated as a cold matter of fact, continuing to watch the cabin in the gathering gloom. "The Jersey Devil."

Dean turned carefully in his seat to look at his silent brother, and held his hands out, palms up, wearing a guilty expression. Sam stared at his brother, his mouth slightly open, because it looked and sounded like Dean had just been sincere.

"Well, I say saw; it should be more like _thought I saw,_" Dean said, rationalizing his previous statement. His mouth was suddenly as dry as sandpaper, and he swallowed hard before continuing. "It was just like Weird Bob described in his interview with the paper." He glanced uneasily around the car's interior for something to distract his brother; finding nothing, he looked back at Sam. "It was about seven feet tall, reddish leathery skin, head like a horse, wings like a bat, cloven hooves, blah, blah, blah. Actually, it pretty much looked like a big red devil!" Dean was glad that the car was now in semi-darkness; he could feel color tingeing his formerly pale cheeks.

"Why?" Sam said, his eyes searching his brother's face. He still wasn't absolutely sure that Dean wasn't jerking his chain.

"Why what?"

"Why have you made this so difficult?" Sam asked.

"What was I supposed to say, Sam?" Dean said defensively. "I knew it wasn't real; you would have seen it too if it had really been there, and you didn't. Hell, Sam, I saw it—thought I saw it," he corrected himself. "I hardly believe it, why should you?"

"Today's not the first time you've seen it though, is it?"

Dean shook his head. "No, I saw it yesterday, just before I...before the bird flew into the car."

"There's something else, isn't there?" Sam continued to stare at Dean as his brother licked his lips nervously. He hadn't forgotten how terrible Dean had looked yesterday, and then again today, and how he'd seemed shaken to the very core.

"I'm really tired, Sam." Dean paused; he could tell from his brother's expression that he wouldn't be allowed to leave that statement incomplete. He needed to let Sam know how sorry he was, that he hadn't meant any of the things he had said. He felt as though a great weight were being lifted off his shoulders. "I couldn't control my temper this morning. The way I talked to you...well...it was like somebody had flipped a switch. I didn't feel like I was in control, not of what I was saying. I didn't seem to have much control of my body either. I just felt like there was no point in anything, even in trying, I couldn't stop shaking. I—I'm really sorry." He blinked rapidly.

Sam remained silent, unsure what to do to comfort his brother. After a moment, he said quietly, "It's okay," moving closer to Dean. "You know, I think Missouri might be able to help us."

"No, it's not okay!" Dean blurted out. "I was a freakin' asshole, Sam, that's all there is to it, so don't go finding excuses for me." He paused and rubbed his hand over his hair. "It's my fault that you got bitten."

"How the hell do you figure that?" Sam was shocked by the emotion behind his brother's sudden outburst. Sure, he'd seen Dean upset before, but he'd always thought of his brother's emotions as being similar to a pressure cooker—you could see and hear the pressure rising, oh so slowly, until it erupted with volcanic intensity. This time, it had been mere moments in bubbling to the surface.

"I hesitated...I hesitated, and you got hurt. I'd never have forgiven myself if anything had happened to you!"

"Dude, you didn't hesitate; I was there, remember?" Sam said forcefully. "And I'm sorry too."

"What the hell for?"

"I'm sorry for giving you a hard time. I'm sorry that you thought I wouldn't believe you," Sam said earnestly, wanting nothing more than to reach out and comfort his brother.

"You've got nothing to be sorry for," Dean said with finality, indicating that the conversation was at an end.

Then Dean's body abruptly tensed. "He's here."

TBC.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N **Special thanks going to my beta's katriel1987 for volunteering to complete the horrible task of turning my ramblings into something readable and to Merisha for the occasional gentle prod and providing the spit to make it shiny. Any mistakes are of course my own.

**DISCLAIMER TYPE THINGY:- **Eric Kripke owns everything Supernatural. I'll put them all back when I've finished, I promise.

The Unusual Suspects

Chapter Seven

A wraith-like form moved fleetingly toward the cabin. Its face, a stark white orb, appeared to float disembodied against the deep shadow of its surroundings and the darkness of its clothing. It stopped every few paces to look back in the direction it had just come from, as though it expected to be followed.

The brothers had watched as Bob left the cabin thirty minutes earlier. His bulging rucksack thrown jauntily over his shoulder, he had cheerfully whistled the X-Files theme tune as he'd melted into the forest on his hunt for E.T.

Spencer Kane approached the rear of the cabin from that very same direction.

Crouching as they ran, the brothers approached silently, hugging the edges of the cabin as they followed Kane into the property. The cabin was in semi-darkness as they entered the kitchen. Their guns were drawn and ready to use, because, as Dean had succinctly pointed out, they knew _who_ Spencer Kane was, not necessarily _what_ the hell he was.

Kane was illuminated by the cold light from the refrigerator as he ransacked it for food, making no distinction between cooked and raw as he used his skeletal fingers to shove it avariciously into his mouth.

"Hey!" Dean called.

Kane spun around so rapidly that half chewed food flew out of his mouth. His eyes glowed eerily in the faint light. Surprise made his dark, sunken eyes unnaturally large in his wizened face. His filthy matted hair and straggly beard appeared to be supporting a miniature wildlife colony of their own, and his clothing hung in tatters off his thin frame. The first thing that the brothers noticed, however, was the ripe, unwashed smell which oozed from his direction. The second thing was the blood that covered his clothing and streamed from his nose.

Spencer threw the handful of food that hadn't made it to his mouth at the two dark silhouettes blocking his exit, and ran into the hallway.

"Spencer, stop," Sam commanded.

The slight man stopped dead in his tracks. Then, with a petrified look at the men pursuing him, he bolted through the nearest door, into the bathroom. Sam arrived at the door first, in time to hear the lock click into place.

"Spencer, open up. C'mon, man, we just want to help you," he called through the door as he hit it with his palm.

Dean arrived a beat later. Not being known for his diplomacy, he hammered on the door with his curled-up fist.

"What did you do to those men, you freaky son of a bitch?" He shouted.

"Tactful, Dean! Did you see the state he's in? He doesn't look like he could pull the skin off a custard, let alone rip someone's head off!"

A barrage of unintelligible shouts and incomprehensible mumbling and moaning issued from behind the locked door.

"Hey, stinky little dude, shut the hell up and open the frickin' door!" Dean shouted.

Kane's blood-curdling scream rent the air.

"Spencer, please." Sam listened at the door and heard Kane ranting. "Do you think he's all right?" He asked Dean, as Spencer fell ominously silent.

"No, I don't think he's all right. He's either possessed or he just caught himself in his zipper!"

"God will judge you." Kane's voice carried clearly through the door. "It was God's judgment. He smote them, and he will prevail."

"Smote!" Dean said incredulously. "Great. Looks like we've got ourselves a goddamned fundamentalist psycho killer."

"I am his right hand. He took them. He took away the imperfect," Spencer screamed.

"Break it down, Sam," Dean said, managing to look almost apologetic as he pointed to his side.

Sam backed up until he bumped the wall behind him. He had barely enough room to raise his knee and break the door from its hinges.

Kane looked up curiously at the two men who had just forced their way into the bathroom. Intent on his task, he turned the faucet off, halting the flow of cold water into the overflowing sink.

"Look," he said to his spectators; cupping his hands, he plunged them into the water. Raising his hands up, he let the water trickle between his fingers. "Wine," he said in an awed whisper.

He turned to look into the mirror and smiled at his unkempt reflection. Blood continued to trickle from his nose, and he wiped the back of his hand across his face.

"See me," Kane shouted into the mirror, and hammered his thin chest with his fists as though he were trying to attract his reflection's attention.

Deliberately, he punched himself in the jaw, rattling his teeth together. Reaching inside his mouth with his fingers, he twisted and turned his wrist as he fought to find a grip. His cry of pain rapidly became a wet-sounding gurgle as his fingers emerged, dripping with blood. His anguished groan changed into one of pleasure as he turned and opened his hand to show his reluctant audience the tooth he had just ripped from his own mouth. The silver filling glinted dimly in the low watt lighting as he dropped the tooth into the toilet bowl with a clink.

"See me," Kane repeated, and smiled to reveal his bloodied gums. "Now I'm perfect." He laughed uncontrollably until he retched.

"Spencer, please let us help you," Sam said, lowering his gun as he approached the hysterical man.

"God will help me," Spencer replied, still addressing his reflection. "I'm on a mission from God."

He fell silent, his head canted at an angle as though he were listening to someone. He nodded, then gripped the side of the sink and, using all his remaining strength, head-butted the mirror.

The glass shattered, scattering tiny sparkling pieces onto the floor and into the water-filled sink, which took on a red hue. Kane touched his forehead and pulled out a small sliver of glass. He stared at it, twisting and turning it as if he were examining a rare jewel, before letting it drop from his fingers. He wobbled unsteadily as he turned to face the strangers.

"It's inside me. Get it out, for the love of God, get it out!" he pleaded as fresh blood from his forehead poured onto his already blood-soaked shirt. For an instant, Spencer Kane regained control of his own body.

Clutching his head and screaming in pain, Kane dropped to the floor like the proverbial sack of potatoes.

_SNSNSNSNSN_

"He's catatonic," Sam said. A string of bloody saliva traced its way down Spencer Kane's chin to land on his scrawny chest, and his glazed eyes stared at a point just above Sam's head.

"Hey, you don't stink that bad," Dean said guiltily, but sprinkled the fallen man with holy water nonetheless. Satisfied when no smoke appeared, Dean bent over. With his right arm tucked against his side, protecting his ribs, he gently prodded Kane on the arm.

Kane's eyes shot open. "YOU!" He screamed. Eyes bulging, he launched himself at Dean.

Dean fell backward, and Kane followed him to the floor, raining blows on Dean's head and shoulders. The blows were kitten-weak and Dean fended them off easily. Sam grabbed Kane's shirt collar and, almost lifting him into the air, pulled him off Dean. Kane threw his head back, catching Sam on the bridge of his nose. Sam's eyes watered as Kane slipped from his grip and started out the bathroom door.

Barely able to see through the tears, Sam reached for the thin man, who easily avoided his grasp. Sam ran after Spencer, through the bathroom door and straight into something solid enough to send him falling to the floor, stunned.

Spencer Kane ran out of the cabin as though he were being chased by the devil himself.

_SNSNSNSNSN_

Sam sat on the rough floorboards, his back resting against the side of the staircase, his head cradled in his hands.

"Sam." Dean hunkered down on the floor by his brother's side. Sam's eyes were open, but he appeared to be looking at something to Dean's left. "Sam," Dean repeated, touching his brother's shoulder.

"Jesus," Sam slurred. His head, which had been rolling loosely on his shoulders, jerked up, and he tried to focus on the Dean who had just spoken to him. He would ignore the five other Deans for now.

"Hey, lay off the blaspheming," Dean said, grinning, as Sam's eyes focused on him properly. "Okay?"

"Yeah, no."

"Make up your mind," Dean said as he gripped Sam's arm, pulling him back onto his feet.

"Yeah, I'm fine," Sam grunted. "I meant Spencer Kane. I think _he_ thinks he's Jesus." Steadying himself, Sam closed the cupboard door responsible for his downfall and gingerly followed Dean toward the kitchen.

"You mean turning the water into wine, and the smoting?" _Was that actually a word?_

Sam gave a cockeyed smile as they emerged from the cabin. "He did say he was on a mission from God," he said, gently massaging his forehead; he could already feel the slight swelling of a lump.

"Back to the Bluesmobile," Dean said with a grin. Latching onto The Blues Brother reference, he massacred the theme to Rawhide as they walked toward the welcoming sight of the Impala.

_SNSNSNSNSN_

Cherry Tree Motel

"Hey Sam," Dean shouted from the small table where he sat shuffling through a folder containing Spencer Kane's personal details.

"What?" Sam's muffled voice came from the bathroom.

"How old would you say Stinky Kane is?"

"I don't know." Sam appeared in the doorway, drying his hands. The hair around his face was still damp, and strands of it stuck to his forehead, where a shiny lump had appeared following his close encounter with a solid object. Sticking out his bottom lip, he continued, "About fifty, I guess." He threw the used hand towel into the sink and closed the door behind him.

"Not even close," Dean said, shaking his head. "He's your age!"

Sam's eyebrows flicked up in surprise. "Maybe he's had a hard life?"

"Hard life? Dude, he's not married!" Dean rolled his head. His neck was stiffening again, and he was becoming uncomfortably warm.

Sam pulled up a chair, joined Dean at the table, and began to flick through the folders of the other missing men. "What do you think we should do about Kane?" He asked a few minutes later.

"I think we should call the cops." Dean said sharply. "It's their job to look after the evil living; I'm only interested in the evil dead." _Why the hell did Sam always expect him to have the answers? _

"We can't just leave him Dean."

"No, I don't guess we can." Dean put the file down. His hands were shaking, and he covertly slid them under the table, away from Sam's prying eyes. "Did you turn the heating up?" He asked, staring at the top of his brother's head, as he felt beads of sweat running down his back, making him shudder.

Sam seemed not to hear his question. "This is interesting," he said as he pulled a document from each file and spun them around so that Dean could see. "Look, these are their medical reports. Both of the dead guys had undergone major invasive surgery, metal plates, pins in breaks, even a pacemaker. I guess ours isn't the only dangerous job in the world." Sam reached over and slid Spencer Kane's file toward him. "Read them Dean." Sam encouraged, noticing his brother had only given the documents a perfunctory glance.

Dean tried to concentrate on the words on the paper, but they took on a life of their own, floating around the page as they deliberately dodged his focus. The irritating but barely audible background buzz had returned to nettle him. _Who the hell did Sam think he was! His drill sergeant? Giving him orders, after all the crap he'd put up with so Sam could escape his particular fate._

"If there is something out there, preying on the 'imperfect', it could explain why the bodies were mutilated like that. Maybe it just ripped away what didn't belong." Sam said distractedly as he leafed through Kane's file.

Sam's voice faded into the background, and the little white dots returned to dance annoyingly in Dean's peripheral vision.

Light tapping on the door interrupted Sam's musings. He rose to answer it.

Dean watched as Sam moved to the door. _It was just like him to turn the heat up without considering anybody else. He'd always been like that, a selfish controlling bastard._ Dean dropped his head into his hands as Sam let Missouri into the room, as the sound of their greetings rushed over him in a suffocating wave.

A perfect crimson circle dripped onto the white paper in front of Dean. He stared at it, wondering where it had come from. A second drop landed beside it.

Dean raised a hand to his face and looked over at his brother to see if he had noticed. Sam was deep in conversation with Missouri. He knew they were talking about him again. He returned his stare to the crimson circles. They were plotting against him; they were up to something. _Perfect, perfect, perfect,_ that was what Spencer Kane had been chanting. They gave him that sly look again; did they really think he wouldn't notice? The red drops, normally on the inside, looked right on the outside too, perfect round circles on the virgin white paper.

Sam, realizing that his brother had become quiet, looked over and saw the blood running down Dean's arm. "You're bleeding," he said, alarmed.

"Freaks." Dean mumbled as he peered at the bloody trail running across the back of his hand..

"What did you say?" Sam refused to believe what he had just heard.

"You heard me." Dean snapped, slapping his hands down onto the tabletop, as he turned his green glare on them.

Sam and Missouri both stared at him as though he had grown two heads.

"Why don't you two get a room," Dean said spitefully when he saw them glance at each other.

"You're not going to begrudge me having a conversation with Missouri, surely?" Sam's eyes widened in astonishment.

"I begrudge you everything," Dean said bitterly. "Everything! Your relationships, your friends, your life!" Dean leapt to his feet, knocking the chair over, and stood there, breathing hard, his hands clenched into fists.

"Sam," Missouri said, laying a steadying hand on his tense shoulder. "I don't think Dean's feeling well. Let's give him some space."

Sam turned his back on Dean and sat down in the hard-backed chair he had vacated earlier. He looked stunned.

"Bathroom," Dean muttered as he swayed unsteadily toward it.

Sam rose and began to follow.

"Just leave me alone," Dean snarled.

"I'll be out here if you need me," Sam said. He stood outside the bathroom, staring at the door, unsure what to do when his brother slammed it in his face.

_SNSNSNSNSN_

Dean turned the cold water on all the way, and wetting a handful of tissue, used it to clean his bloody face and hands. This was the second time in less than twelve hours that he'd stood in front of the mirror, bleeding.

Wiping the last traces of blood from his face, he threw the wedge of tissue into the toilet and flushed it away.

"You look like crap," he said to his reflection.

He stared into the mirror, and raised his hand to the glass. His reflection mimicked his movements. His own perplexed expression greeted him as his fingertips tentatively brushed the cold surface. Was it his imagination, or was his reflection out of sync with his own movements?

His reflection nodded and bared its teeth in a mockery of a smile. Dean's eyes widened in horror as he backed away. He hadn't made that expression.

"You know they'll leave you," his reflection whispered matter-of-factly. "You let him down, like you let everyone down. He got hurt and he blames you. They all blame you. They all pity you."

Dean's knees threatened to give way, and he sat heavily on the rolled edge of the bathtub. He was sick, like Missouri said, sick in the head because he could still see and hear his reflection talking to him.

"Listen, they're talking about you now," his reflection insisted. "Plotting against you. They both hate you. Get rid of them, before they hurt you."

"You're not real," Dean hissed.

"Perfect," his reflection whispered, and Dean all but ran out of the bathroom.

_SNSNSNSNSN_

"I'm not prepared to sit here and do nothing while Dean's being attacked by some kind of emotional vampire," Sam said as he paced the motel room. "You saw the way he just acted. One minute he's fine, the next..." Sam threw his hands up in frustration. "It's been a repeat of this morning."

Missouri sat at the table watching Sam as he walked back and forth.

"I'm not saying that you should," she said. "Have you been in touch with Bobby? Told him what's been happening?"

"Not yet, but I will."

"Remember, Sam, Dean's not himself."

"Maybe he's not, but I get the feeling that somewhere deep inside, he's really thinking those things!"

"We all have dark thoughts, Sam. If anybody should know, you should!" Missouri's words weren't lost on Sam. He only had to reflect on his relationship with his father to confirm them.

Dean re-entered the room and walked jerkily to the side of his bed. Missouri did a double-take and gasped out loud. Dean looked terrible; his face was ghostly white, and he was shivering as though he were running a high fever, anxiety emanating from him in sickening waves.

"Oh my god, Dean!" Sam exclaimed, seeing the state his brother was in.

"Why are you still here?" Dean snapped at Missouri. "Don't you get it? Are you really that stupid? I don't want you here, _we _don't want you here."

"Missouri's staying, Dean. She's helping." Sam eased himself between his brother and Missouri, worried what Dean might do.

"Get rid of her Sam." Dean threatened, and looked accusingly at his brother. "You better keep that goddamn witch away from me, or so help me." He raised a trembling finger at Missouri.

"Dean, I only want to help," Missouri said gently.

Dean remained silent for a few beats, then said pointedly, "You're nothing to me. You're nothing to this family, you never were." Dean hissed. "You're just some frustrated, dried up, interfering old bitch."

"Dean. That's enough!" Sam had been biting his tongue during Dean's vitriolic attack, but he'd gone too far now.

"What's next, huh? Is Bobby gonna show up with some lame-ass excuse to come and check on me? You must think I'm a moron, both of you, whispering together like a pair of old crones. Did you think I wouldn't hear you?"

"Dean, calm down." Sam reached toward his brother.

"I'm not telling you again, keep your damn freak hands away from me." Dean placed a steadying hand on the wall as he swayed.

"Dean, you're not well."

Dean's thoughts turned to the knife which lay only inches away from his right hand. He imagined curling his fingers around its ivory handle and using it...

Sudden, explosive pain filled Dean's head, as if an iron spike had been driven into his brain. He didn't have time to try to sit; his legs folded under him and he collapsed onto the floor and lay unmoving.

"Help me," Sam said, rushing toward Dean.

Missouri grabbed Dean's arm. Crying out in pain, she snatched her hand back as a pulse of raw energy ran up her arm and into her chest. Her breath caught in her throat as every nerve in her body screamed as though it were on fire. She pitched forward like she was going to pass out.

"I—I need to go back to my room," Missouri said, pulling herself upright, panic-stricken as she backed away from the brothers.

"Missouri, please, I need your help," Sam pleaded as he struggled to lift Dean from the floor.

"I can't...I have to go." Tears running down her cheeks, Missouri shook her head. "I'm sorry." She turned and fled the room.

Sam glared at Missouri's retreating form. He couldn't believe she'd actually bailed on him, not when he needed her, not when Dean _really_ needed her. Lowering Dean gently back to the floor, he sat down next to his prostrate brother.

"Dean." He tried to rouse his brother with a gentle shake.

"Don't shake me Sammy," Dean said thickly, his eyes still closed. "I think I might throw up."

Sam gave a nervous laugh. Dean was back, at least for now.

Dean forced open one eyelid. The light was far too bright. He wondered whether opening both eyes would half or double the light burning out his retina. Hell, he was a hunter; he wasn't about to be beaten by a 60-watt bulb. He opened both eyes.

"Wow," said Dean as soon as he was sure he wasn't going to puke. He even managed a sickly smile. "That was marginally worse than being the ass in an ass kicking contest."

"How you feeling?" Concern pinched Sam's face, and he suddenly looked very serious.

"Great."

"Liar." Sam stood. "C'mon, let's get you onto the bed." He reached down to help his brother.

"Sorry to break it to you, Sam, but you're really not my type." Dean's laugh stopped in a gasp of pain as Sam pulled him upright. He wasn't sure what hurt more, his ribs or his head; both vied for top billing.

"Yeah, I know." Sam grunted with effort as he tried to support most of Dean's weight.

"Sorry."

"Yeah, I know that too." It didn't matter to Sam what exactly the apology was for.

Sam sat Dean down on the bed. Dean's head was hanging low; he looked like he was contemplating his shoelaces; which although functional, were not that interesting.

"That happened a lot faster than last time," Dean said without raising his head.

Sam sat opposite Dean in weary consideration. He watched as his brother regained some color, and then saw a look of torment fill Dean's face as he looked up and directly at him.

"You think I'm gonna end up like him, don't you?" Dean canted his head at his brother. "A crazy freak, like Spencer Kane."

Sam remained silent. He didn't have to reply; the look on his face confirmed Dean's fears.

"I'm screwed," Dean said.

TBC


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N **Special thanks going to my beta's katriel1987 for volunteering to complete the horrible task of turning my ramblings into something readable and to Merisha for the occasional gentle prod and providing the spit to make it shiny. Any mistakes are of course my own.

**DISCLAIMER TYPE THINGY:- **Eric Kripke owns everything Supernatural. I'll put them all back when I've finished, I promise.

**A/N **Thanks to all you folks out there who are still reading – Shout out to Deangirl1 who, I think must be psychic, she'll know what I mean when she reads this chapter lol. Happy Reading.

The Unusual Suspects

Chapter Eight

**J. Winchester, Journal extract.**

**Choronzon** - _also known as 333, Lord of Hallucinations. A demon. Choronzon is a spirit of decay—physical, mental, and spiritual. Its victims will quickly age and sicken, and in later stages will often posses unnatural_ _strength. It confuses people, and drives them insane. Cunning and dangerous, it will manipulate to save itself. - A nasty son of a bitch!_

An incessant tapping sound gradually penetrated Dean's consciousness. He kept his eyes closed as he tried to figure out what the noise was. It finally dawned on him that he was listening to Sam using his laptop. He contemplated throwing something heavy at Sam and going back to sleep, but the pleasant and irresistible aroma of freshly brewed coffee proved too much of a temptation, and he cracked open his eyelids.

"Mybrothersacrazyfreakdotcom?" Dean croaked as he peered over the bed covers. He wetted his lips and pondered the morning's burning question: exactly what had crapped in his mouth overnight?

"Hey," Sam said, looking up over the top of the screen, a smile cracking his stony face. "You've had a good sleep." At least, Sam hoped Dean had been asleep and not unconscious. His brother had been fairly out of it last night.

"What time is it?" Dean asked, grimacing as he smacked his lips.

"A little after one." Sam got up and poured two large mugs of coffee.

"In the afternoon?" Dean squinted at his watch. He'd been asleep for hours, yet he felt drained and exhausted.

"Yeah, you've been asleep for over ten hours." Sam stood by the bed, offering the steaming mug to his brother.

"How's your arm?" Dean asked, noticing that Sam was using his right arm.

"It's a little stiff, but never mind that. What about you?" Typical Dean, worrying about him when he himself looked, and must have felt, like crap. The dark smudges under his eyes took on a purple hue against his pale skin, making them even more pronounced. Sam noticed that Dean avoided any direct eye contact.

"Great." Dean gave his standard response as he sat up and swung his legs out of the bed. "Crap," he groaned with feeling as his seized-up chest muscles rebelled.

Sam set the mug down on the bedside table nearest Dean and sat on the bed opposite his brother, mirroring their positions from the previous evening. He and Missouri had had a busy morning; there was a lot to tell Dean, but that could wait until his brother had rejoined the land of the living.

"Hungry?" Sam asked, smiling.

"Yeah, a little." Dean's stomach gave a growl on cue. He'd not eaten anything since yesterdays apocalyptic cheese and pepperoni pizza. His stomach gave a flip, the thought of the pizza bringing back memories of the bodies in the ravine. And then it flipped again just because of yesterday, full stop.

"Okay, but do me a favor, get yourself cleaned up first," Sam wafted his hand under his nose and grimaced. "You're a little ripe!" Sam rose and returned to the table where he'd been working.

Groaning as his muscles stretched, and too exhausted to react to Sam's teasing, Dean walked stiffly to the bathroom door and paused with his hand on the handle. "Are you going now?" he asked as he heard Sam power the laptop down..

"Yeah, in a few minutes. Why, is there a problem?" Sam hadn't missed the worried look that had passed briefly over his brother's face.

"No, 'course not." Dean laughed self-consciously, because there was absolutely no way he was going to ask Sam to go into the bathroom with him. But he'd probably leave the door ajar, just in case.

_SNSNSNSNSN_

Dean felt a little more human, and not so bone-tired, after treating his aches and pains to a steaming hot bath which had fogged the mirror. Not that that mattered to him; he had no intention of looking into it anyway. He exited the bathroom dressed in clean jeans and a black t-shirt, and pulled up short. Missouri was back, and talking to Sam.

"Oh," Dean said in surprise.

"Well, how are you doing today, honey?" Missouri asked kindly as she turned in his direction. She searched Dean's face for the answer.

"Fine," he replied rigidly.

"Dean, I need to apologize for yesterday," Missouri continued. She continued the search as Dean obviously wasn't 'fine' at all.

Dean glanced over at Sam, who sat stiffly on a chair, watching uneasily. This was getting uncomfortable, and he didn't think he could cope with any heavy scenes as he already felt emotionally drained.

Missouri gave a thin smile as she empathized with Deans feelings of awkwardness. Reluctantly, she dragged her eyes away from the older brother as she half turned to include Sam in the conversation. "I expect you must have thought I'd run off yesterday, bailing out on you both like that."

Dean pointed to his head and gave a wan smile, indicating that he'd had far too much on his mind to worry about what Missouri had or hadn't done. It was time to bite the bullet. "Missouri, you've got nothing to apologize for." Dean licked his lips nervously. "I'm sorry. I said some horrible things yesterday, about both of you." He glanced over at Sam. "I, um, I don't..." He faltered, tongue-tied. Somehow _sorry_ just didn't seem to cut it. How many words did the Inuit have for snow? Surely there should be more than just one blanket 'sorry'!

"When I touched you yesterday, I guess I got a dose of what you've been experiencing," Missouri said. "I'm sorry, Dean. I was overwhelmed by it. I don't know how you've managed to pull yourself back from it." Her dark eyes flicked over Dean's guarded face.

Dean felt his face flush, he shook his head and said softly. "I'm not sure I could pull myself back again." He hadn't forgotten how close that knife had come to being in his hand. He swore to whatever god would listen that if it did end up in his hand, he would use it on himself first.

Missouri reached out and put her hand on Dean's arm. This time there was no jolt of pain, no crushing sense of despair, no madness, just warm skin and green eyes that betrayed his torment.

Dean had followed Missouri's hand as it had moved toward his arm. He tensed when she gently placed it on his bicep, and then relaxed as he was overwhelmed by a sense of calmness which flowed from her grip. She radiated comfort and hope, whereas moments before he had felt only foreboding.

Dean rubbed his free hand over his eyes, which had blurred inconveniently.

Missouri stared at Dean, who for once didn't look away. "Have you told him yet?" She asked Sam without looking his way. She smiled as she gave Dean's arm a final squeeze. It was unusual that just this once, he had allowed her to comfort him.

"Not yet." Sam suddenly looked panicked. "I was going to after we'd eaten," he added quickly, flustered he pointed at the bags on the table as Missouri turned toward him.

"Samuel Winchester, you tell your brother right now." Missouri's hands were on her hips; she meant business. Dean smiled. Actually, it was pretty nice to see Sam getting the sharp edge of Missouri's tongue for a change.

_SNSNSNSNSN_

"Choronzon?" Dean asked as he paced the room, his face a montage of emotions. "Never heard of it." He shook his head, looking baffled, skeptical, appalled and doubtful, all at the same time. "Are you sure?"

Sam nodded. "Yup, fairly sure."

"Fairly? Is there any chance you could be a _little_ more positive?"

"We're _positively_ fairly sure its Choronzon." Sam confirmed.

"It didn't give me its name and address Dean." Missouri said huffily. "But it gave me enough to pass onto Bobby."

"So you _all_ figured out this demon is my mojo munching monster?" Dean stopped his pacing as he looked at his brother and the woman who may just have helped to save his, and maybe Sam's life.

Sam nodded. "Yeah, thanks to Dad's journal too." Sam pushed their father's book, which lay open on the table, toward Dean.

Dean scanned the page, half expecting the words to start floating across the paper as he tried to read them. John Winchester's scrawl filled the page, together with drawings of hexagons and what looked like a black spiral scribble, taking up half the sheet.

"So, unless we stop it, it'll turn me into a wrinkly old dude?" Dean looked up, he'd read enough.

"Yeah, and drive you insane," Sam reminded.

"I'll be a wrinkly old dude!" Dean frowned as he repeated himself and looking uneasy, began to pace again.

"Yeah, and drive you insane."

"Hello, is there an echo in here?" Dean had purposely ignored that particular aspect. "Thanks, dude, I get the big picture. I'll be old, but it won't matter 'cause I'll be as crazy as a bag of chipmunks."

"Ferrets."

"What?"

"The saying. It goes, 'crazy as a bag of ferrets'."

Dean shot his brother a filthy look. "Do you have to keep correcting me?"

Sam stiffened and shot Missouri a panicked glance. _Not again, _Sam thought, and readied himself to tackle his brother. "Dean?" he said cautiously, half rising from his chair.

It was Dean's turn to look stunned as he waved his brother back down, he hadn't meant to freak Sam out. He knew Sam was worried, but now he could see the toll the strain was taking on his younger brother. "Who are you, Dr Doolittle?" Dean softened his features as he attempted to alleviate some of the tension he'd just caused. "Thanks Sam, I'll be able to sleep so much easier now." Dean had ceased pacing to stop opposite his worried-looking brother. "I guess it's still...feeding?" Dean said softly, already knowing the answer.

Sam nodded, looking glum. "It's feeding off negativity, Dean. When it's feeding, it needs you to be in extremis—sleep-deprived, anxious, paranoid, and all those other tasty emotions."

"I don't guess the fact that its number is 333 means it's only half evil?" Dean grinned at his brother in an attempt to cheer him up, and himself for that matter. Sam looked more worried than ever as Dean dropped into the chair next to him. "And _that's_ what has been giving me hallucinations?" Dean sounded relieved. Sam nodded. "That's a relief," Dean said. "I wasn't looking forward to getting sponge baths from Nurse Ratched." He nudged Sam's arm so that it slipped off the table.

"And," Dean continued, suddenly serious as he dropped the jackass routine. "It made me say those...things?" _Say yes, Sam, please say yes,_ he repeated his new mantra.

"Yeah," Sam confirmed. "It wants you to be isolated, separated from any emotional support. You're a much easier target if you're alone."

"Run that by me again," Dean requested, fighting to suppress a smile.

Sam repeated himself.

"Yep," Dean said, grinning. "That sounded great the second time, too."

Sam smiled. Only in Dean's world would that constitute good news, but he understood why.

Dean's stomach gurgled and he pulled the bag toward him. "You bought me M&M's!" Dean exclaimed as he pulled the candy out. It was strange, that Sam's small gesture could mean so much.

"Any idea why I saw the things I saw?" He asked, and started to pull the bag of candy open. "Hey," he said when Sam grabbed them out of his hand. Dean's thoughts immediately turned to another kind of gesture.

"They're for later," Sam said, stowing the candy back in the bag. "And I can only guess you saw whatever happened to be fresh on your mind."

"Sam's right," Missouri confirmed. "I sensed that from you yesterday."

"So I saw the Jersey Devil because of Weird Bob's article, and I heard birds because one flew into the car." A slight smile crept onto Dean's face. "Too bad I wasn't thinking about..." he paused, receiving two perturbed glances. "...kittens," he finished, feeling his face flush.

Dean coughed and, with a self-conscious grin, donned his innocent look. "And Spencer Kane?" He continued.

Sam felt the corners of his mouth tug up as he fought down the urge to grin at Dean's not-so-innocent look. "Yeah, him too," Sam confirmed. "You saw his picture, Dean. He's aged and confused, to say the least."

"Weird Bob?"

Sam made a face. "I'm not so sure. He might just be a little eccentric."

Sam rifled through one of the bags and offered Dean and Missouri a cold, cellophane-wrapped pie. Dean took his eagerly, but Missouri wrinkled her nose and shook her head.

"What do you know about Aleister Crowley?" Sam asked.

"Not that much," Dean admitted as he wolfed down a mouthful. "Other than that he was supposed to be 'the wickedest man in the world'."

Sam continued, "Aleister Crowley left England and came to America in 1914, and reportedly he and a small community of his followers set up a commune in the woods, somewhere in this area. Crowley wrote in his personal diaries that he attempted to summon Choronzon in order to use it in some kind of enlightenment ceremony in Thelemic mysticism. And surprise surprise, things didn't go according to plan, and he only managed to summon it in it's spirit form. So it looks like the spirit has been spreading its own variety of insanity for the last century, and giving cabin fever a bad name."

Dean raised his eyebrows, not sure where Sam was going with his ancient history lesson. "And?" Dean asked.

"Yesterday, at the survey site..." Sam hesitated at the troubled look which had darkened his brother's face. "I thought I saw something scratched onto the ground just after...before you found the bodies. I've researched it, and it's a unicursal hexagram. I think the survey team happened upon Crowley's original summoning site by mere bad luck. They were just in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"So Choronzon has been on a killing spree for over a hundred years, and nobody's noticed?" Dean stood, and returned to pacing the room.

Sam shook his head. "No, and that's the problem. It's not interested in killing; it's interested in feeding. Who knows how many people have been institutionalized from its attacks. We've all seen the headlines, whole families slaughtered by one of their own family members. God knows how many have been murdered as a direct result of Choronzon's attacks on just one person. This time, we know for sure that it's here."

"God help them," Missouri said passionately. _God help you, _Missouri thought as she watched Dean circuit the room for the twentieth time.

"So, this universal hexagram..." Dean began.

"Unicursal," Sam corrected.

Dean rolled his eyes. "So, brainiac, this _unicursal_ hexagram, it's important why?"

"It's a summoning hex, which means we've got a direct line to Choronzon." Sam looked agitated. "And if we can summon it, we can exorcise it."

"Haven't you two forgotten something?" Missouri interjected.

Two puzzled faces turned toward her.

"The little matter of who killed those men?"

"My money's on Weird Bob," Dean said emphatically as he finished his last mouthful.

"I'm not sure," Sam said with a slight shake of his head. "But one of Choronzon's lunch buddies did it, that's for sure."

"Well, here's some good news." Dean paused for dramatic effect. "I'm not having hallucinations about the Jersey Devil anymore."

"That's great news," Sam said encouragingly.

"No, they're much worse. I was having a conversation with my reflection yesterday." Dean frowned at the faces Sam and Missouri were making. "That's not good, is it?"

_SNSNSNSNSN_

"What am I, a freak magnet?" Dean was not happy at all.

"I've looked into it, Dean," Sam said with a hint of apology in his tone. "Bobby's done the research too. It's gotta be you, dude."

"Oh, man." Dean rubbed his hand over his hair. "Just how much blood are you gonna need?"

"Just a drop," Sam said. "Well, no more than a thimble full...At least no more than a very small glass full."

"Dude, stop while you're winning." Dean didn't like the way the blood count was going up as Sam talked. "Well then," he said resignedly, "it's gonna have to be today, 'cause I don't think I can take another day like yesterday."

"Plan A, then?" Sam sought Dean's approval.

"More like _Plan 9 From Outer Space,_" Dean muttered under his breath. "Sure. Get to the site, I drop a pint or three of blood on the hexagram, then stand guard so you don't get your ass kicked by Weird Bob, while you summon Choronzon and then send it to hell. Did I get it?"

"Yeah, more or less." Sam wasn't happy with Dean's cavalier attitude. The demon would use any method at its disposal to stop the exorcism.

"Can I have the M&M's now?"

_SNSNSNSNSN_

Survey Site

"Bell book and candle?" Dean asked as Sam filled his bag. The fresh north wind whipped his brother's hair into an unruly mess.

"Check," Sam confirmed, pushing his hair out of his eyes.

"What else?" Dean stared into the paraphernalia littering the trunk of the Impala.

"Take some salt. Oh, and some sage and holy water."

"I thought we were exorcising a spirit, not baking cakes, Martha!" Dean said as he passed Sam the ingredients.

Sam made a grim expression and rolled his eyes at his brother. "Sage is burned to drive out spirits and negative energy."

"I know, dude, exorcism 101." Dean pulled the shotgun from its place. "Here, you take the shotgun," he said, offering it to his brother. He felt his amulet thump against his chest as he straightened.

"Why? What are you going to arm yourself with?"

Dean paused. He didn't want to admit that he didn't currently trust himself with any kind of weapon.

"My charm and good looks!" He said lamely and added an even lamer smile.

"You know, you're not funny."

"Just take the goddamn gun," he said as he thrust it at Sam.

Sam stowed the shotgun in the canvas bag as he walked around the side of the car and opened the passenger side door. "Are you sure you don't want to join us?" He asked Missouri as he poked his head into the car.

"In these shoes!" Missouri exclaimed. "Not likely. Besides, as I told you on the way here, you're both wasting your time. I'm not sensing it, Sam. It's not here anymore."

"Yeah, I know what you said, but..." Sam shrugged and continued with a determined look. "It's gonna come back, and I'm willing to give it a try..." Sam looked anxiously over his shoulder as his brother slammed the trunk shut. "For Dean's sake."

Missouri watched as the brothers started up the steep incline. She sensed that the spirit had relocated somewhere. She wasn't sure where, but nevertheless, she wished Sam success, and she hoped that Dean would be safe. She also wished that she'd brought sensible shoes.

_SNSNSNSNSN_

The wind blew in strong gusts, pine branches swayed and rustled, and mini cyclones played in the dirt as they climbed up to the site.

Dean was naturally apprehensive, and the anxiety grew the higher they climbed. He was out of breath again, although this time it was due to the circle of pain that had wound around his ribs. He was almost wheezing when Sam pulled up.

"Goddammit," Sam said patting his pockets. "I forgot the chalk."

"Huh?" Dean gasped, holding his side as his heart pounded against his injured ribs.

"The chalk for drawing the anti-unicursal hexagram!"

"Ah, the chalk." Dean gulped air. "Of course." He really didn't want to go back down and come back up again.

"I can run and get it," Sam said, aware of Dean's panting. He didn't want to drag Dean up and down the hillside, considering it was his own fault he'd been preoccupied. Even if it was about Dean, and what his brother might be driven to do.

"Okay, go for it," Dean said, groaning as he sat down on a boulder and shifted around, trying to find a comfortable spot. "I'll wait here, you know, make sure Weird Bob's not creeping around."

"Do you want the shotgun?"

"Nah, I have the reflexes of a highly trained ninja. Nobody's gonna be taking me by surprise."

"You better have the .35 then," Sam smiled, and forced the pistol into Dean's reluctant hand.

"Go on, Jack, get your ass back down that hill, and hurry up."

"Does that make you Jill?" Sam shouted over his shoulder as he clattered back down the slope.

Dean scowled; he really hadn't thought through that parting insult. He unloaded the pistol and tucked it into the back of his pants. He didn't want it to be too readily available.

He watched the dirt devils as they swirled around the larger rocks, fueled by the breeze. The full horror of his situation finally dawned on him. Maybe Sam was right, and he just wasn't that funny! That parting shot hadn't been up to his usual high standards in pithy one-liners, and he was frantically thinking of something intelligent to say to Sam when he got back.

Too late.

"Hey, what are you doing back so soon?" Dean said when he heard Sam's footfalls crunch over the loose stones. "What did you forget this time, your sense of direction?" He laughed at his own joke as he stood and began to turn to face his brother.

Dean had only managed to turn halfway when a savage blow crashed down on his back and shoulders, sending him to his knees as his legs collapsed beneath him. He didn't have time to cry out; the next blow was already arching through the air. A thick tree branch smashed across his forehead, knocking him senseless and throwing him back. He fought to hold on to consciousness that was rapidly slipping away. Gravel crunched near his ear, and a fine shower of dirt dusted his face as the owner of the footsteps stopped. He tried to focus on his attacker, but he could only make out a vague pale, shimmering shape looming over him as darkness pulled in from the edges of his vision. He didn't see the third blow when it struck him brutally across his cheekbone.

TBC


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N **Special thanks going to my beta's katriel1987 for volunteering to complete the horrible task of turning my ramblings into something readable and to Merisha for the occasional gentle prod and providing the spit to make it shiny. Any mistakes are of course my own.

**DISCLAIMER TYPE THINGY:- **Eric Kripke owns everything Supernatural. I'll put them all back when I've finished, I promise.

The Unusual Suspects

Chapter Nine

It was the incandescent pain, which burned brilliantly across his chest and down both his arms, that eventually pulled Dean back to consciousness.

"Sam?" He gasped as he struggled to move and found that he couldn't. His arms were pulled taut and outstretched on either side of him, restricting his chest. His breathing was labored; he had to fight to draw breath.

"What the hell!" He exclaimed when he managed to raise his head. Pain sliced through his head, from front to back forcing him to grit his teeth as he struggled to keep his head up. Bleary eyed, he looked to see why he couldn't move.

He was lying flat on his back. His arms and wrists were tied with thin nylon cord to a thick eight-foot long plank of wood which ran beneath his arms, shoulders, and back. He tested the ropes binding him and cried aloud at the pain that shot through his joints like a red-hot knife. He had no idea how long he'd been bound, just that it had been long enough to make his muscles scream in agony when he tried to move. Gasping for oxygen, he let his head fall back onto the dusty ground.

Time to take stock. It was still daylight, but the sun was perceptibly lower; it wouldn't be much longer before dusk fell. He rolled his head to the right. A building—no, a cabin—stood close by, logs piled near the back door, a chainsaw lying on top of the pile. Dean swallowed hard. It was Bob Gates' cabin.

"Bob?" A dry rustling sound came from Dean's left, and he turned his head sharply. A dark figure approached, casting a long shadow which slipped fluidly over the dry earth. Dean squinted at the shape, which was thrown into silhouette by the setting sun. The shadow settled over Dean's face, blocking the sun's dying rays.

"Kane!" Dean exclaimed as Spencer Kane shambled closer. Kane's appearance was even more rumpled than before. Madness shone from his sunken eyes, his lined cheeks hollowed by the waning daylight. If it was possible for a living being to look like a zombie, then that was exactly what he looked like, but worse.

"What...what?" Dean paused; too many questions had flooded his brain at the same time. He needed to put them in order of importance.

"Where's Sam?" He demanded.

Kane stood silent, watching Dean, his head bobbing occasionally as though he were contemplating a serious problem.

"What have you done with him?" Dean yelled.

Kane remained silent.

Dean tried a different approach. "C'mon, man," he encouraged, managing to drag a smile onto his face. "Just untie me, huh? Then we can both go our separate ways. You know, you do your thing, I'll do mine."

When Kane didn't answer, Dean said, "What's the matter, cat got your tongue?" His thoughts flashed back to the men's bodies in the ravine, and Kane's self mutilation. He couldn't have done _that_ to himself, could he?

"Look, I'm sorry," he continued. "I shouldn't have called you names. So how about letting me go? You can get cleaned up and we'll go for a beer, OK?" He wasn't going to beg.

That hadn't worked.

"What are you going to do to me, you stinking son of a bitch?" Dean strained against the cords.

Kane watched as Dean struggled to escape his bonds. "Nothing," he finally responded. "I'm going to do nothing."

"So," Dean said, a little too frantically for his liking. "You've got me tied up so you can _nothing _me to death! You've gotta be kidding me." He shook his head, letting it fall back, feeling exhausted and nauseated.

The unmistakable strains of Whitesnake sounded from Dean's jacket pocket as his mobile began to ring.

Kane lunged, his fingers scrabbling at Dean's jacket as he fought to access the inside pocket. Dean twisted and tried to kick as Kane got close; it seemed important to cause Kane as much difficulty as possible. He hadn't realized his ankles were still bound until he tried to move his legs. His feet dropped back to the floor and he gasped in agony as fireworks of pain shot up through his ribs, his shoulders, his head. He cursed aloud as Kane pulled the still-singing mobile from his pocket.

"Hello," Kane said into the mouthpiece.

"SAM!" Dean shouted. "I'm at..."

Kane's filthy hand slapped over Dean's mouth and nose, stopping his cries and his breathing.

"Shh," he hissed into Dean's ear. "I'm speaking to the Savior."

Dean twisted his head in an attempt to loosen Kane's grip. Kane's bony fingers dug into Dean's cheek, and no matter how hard he tried to shake it, the grip was unbreakable.

Kane lifted the mobile back to his ear and paused, listening to the person at the other end. A few seconds passed before he finally spoke. "Yes, yes, I have him here."

Dean's lungs screamed for precious oxygen. There was nothing he could do, and he knew that unless he took a breath soon, he was going to pass out.

Kane took his hand away from Dean's mouth and dropped the phone onto the hard earth, where it bounced toward the wire fence, out of Dean's eyesight. A coughing fit wracked Dean's body as he drew in a shallow gulp of sweet, clean air. Tears ran from the corners of his eyes, blurring his vision as he hacked, his chest heaving in agonizing spasms as he tried to draw in air faster.

Kane turned his back on his victim and shuffled to the shed.

Dean concentrated on slowing his breathing, slowing his pounding heart. Each movement of his chest ground his cracked ribs together, sending fingers of shooting pain into his arms. He wasn't sure how much more he could take.

The sound of objects crashing onto the wooden floor came from the shed, and Dean turned his head to see Kane emerge from the building. He was clutching something in his hands.

"Why are you doing this?" Dean gasped.

Kane approached, his bony fingers clutching a piece of wood. He was still too far away for Dean to make out exactly what it was.

"Talk to me, Spencer," Dean urged. He had managed to will his body to relax, his breathing coming easier now.

Kane moved close enough for Dean to see what he was carrying. It was a claw hammer.

"Shit." Dean didn't like where this was heading. _OK, talk your way out of this one! _He thought. _Get him to talk._

"Spencer...I can call you Spencer, right?" Dean spoke quickly, beginning to panic. "There are people who can help you. You've been traumatized by the death of your work buddies. It must have been terrible for you."

Kane stared at Dean; then a sickly smile crept over his face. "Yes, it was terrible," he agreed.

"Let me go. I can help you. I can get you out of this nightmare."

"I don't want your help." Spencer swung the hammer back and forth in a pendulum motion. "They deserved it."

"What do you mean?" Dean watched the hypnotic movement.

"They weren't perfect, so I corrected them." Kane's grotesque smile broadened, forming a slash across the lower part of his face. "I took away the imperfections, so they would be good enough for the Savior."

"You did that to them? You ripped them apart?"

"They needed correcting."

"You sick bastard. Are you going to correct me too?" The words cracked in Dean's dry mouth.

"No, you're already perfect."

"Why are you doing this?" Any other time, Dean would have agreed with Kane's last statement, but now didn't seem appropriate.

"Because He prefers you to me." The mocking smile vanished from Kane's face as he dropped a handful of nails onto the ground near Dean's right hand.

"You don't have to do this." Beads of sweat ran from Dean's hairline, tickling unpleasantly as they traveled across his temples and into his hair. "You said you weren't going to do anything to me."

Kane put the hammer beside the nails and knelt on the ground at Dean's side.

"I lied." Kane whispered into Dean's ear.

"My brother's coming, he'll kick your frickin' ass," Dean continued, trying to draw comfort from the sound of his own voice. "C'mon, man, can't we work this out?"

"Hush now," Kane sighed. Ribbons of spittle flew from his lips as he made a _shh_ sound and, in a freakish comforting motion, stroked his hand gently across Dean's forehead. Dean squirmed under the unwelcome touch.

"Please." He despised himself for begging, but he really did have to try.

"Be still now, I won't hurt you," Kane said softly as he brushed the grit from Dean's hair.

"Get your stinking hands off me, you freak."

"I said hushhhhh." Kane tore a strip of material off his shirt. Digging his fingers into Dean's cheeks, he forced the dirty rag into Dean's mouth. Then he placed the sharp tip of the nail against the center of Dean's palm, exactly where the crow's beak had pressed against his hand.

For an instant Dean was certain he was in the middle of another hallucination. There were too many coincidences, his right hand where the bird's beak had touched, Mrs Henderson's toast Jesus and the makeshift cross he was about to be nailed to ...

Then Kane pushed down.

It's difficult for any person's brain to process pain that it has never encountered before. People who have been shot—as Dean had been, by a variety of projectiles—liken the pain to a punch.

Dean's brain coped well with the first signal. It knew what to expect, the pressure of something sharp against his skin, the push and release as it bit through the top layer when Kane primed it with his fingers before picking up the hammer.

Dean closed his eyes; he didn't want to see the hammer fall. He wasn't ready, his brain wasn't ready. He had no adrenaline pumping through his system to deaden the pain. What would it be like? A punch? A burn? Would there be any pain as it traveled through his palm?

Then there was the sound of a blow. Dean's cry of pain was lost in a gag as the nail twisted in his hand and something fell heavily across his outstretched arm.

Dean opened his eyes, to be greeted by the sight of Bob Gates's incredulous face.

"Bob?" Dean choked as Bob removed the gag.

"I thought I left the stove on," Bob said, looking perplexed as he placed his rifle on the ground, the stock of which he had just used to render Kane unconscious.

Withdrawing his Bowie knife, Bob shimmered as though he were made of smoke and beams of light, and then Dean's world went black.

_SNSNSNSNSN_

"Dean?"

"Dean?"

Dean stirred, and his eyes flickered open to see Sam's frightened face peering into his own, a matter of inches away. For reasons Dean couldn't quite grasp, he was really pleased to see his brother, even his nasal hair.

"Hey, you staying with us this time?" Sam asked, since it looked likely that Dean would be remaining conscious for more than a few seconds this time.

"Sam?"

"The one and only." Sam smiled.

"What's happening?" Dean asked, confused. The last time he'd seen his brother was the hillside, and now he was lying somewhere too hard, with a view of too much sky. He hated camping. He tried to sit up, but his arms and chest ached, _and_ he hated sitting up anyway.

"I got a call from Bob," Sam said as he helped raise his brother, supporting him in a semi-upright sitting position. "He told me you were here." Sam paused, not quite knowing how to phrase the next sentence. "He told me he had Spencer Kane, and that you were in a spot of bother."

Dean managed to look more confused than before.

Sam's forehead creased as he continued, "Bob said he stopped Spencer Kane from...from crucifying you."

Dean bolted upright and looked at his hands. Sam had to be mistaken; but there, on the inside of his wrists were the livid marks left from the ropes. He gingerly touched the bloody bandage binding his right hand, feeling a jolt of pain from the wound. The little color he had left faded away. "I think I'm gonna puke," he said.

"It didn't go all the way through," Sam said quickly, seeing that Dean was beginning to hyperventilate. "Can you wiggle your fingers?" He paused, watching as Dean wiggled his fingers. "Okay." He tried not to sound exasperated. "Now the hand _with_ the injury."

"It hurts," Dean said as he flexed the fingers on his damaged hand.

"Looks like you got lucky, no serious damage to the tendons, but you'll still need to get a shot. You've got a head wound too, it's bleeding a little," Sam said, bending the truth as he held onto his brother's arms to keep him from toppling over. Dean had bled a lot, the evidence of which had seeped into the ground beneath his head. Sam had closed the small gash with butterfly tape while Dean was unconscious. An angry red scrape marked Dean's cheekbone, his brother was going to have a lovely black eye.

"Thanks, Dr. Quinn medicine woman. Man, I gotta stop getting hit in the face. One day it's gonna ruin my good looks."

"Yeah, that's right." Sam sighed, looking annoyed. "Worry about that, but ignore the potential for brain damage every time you decide to stop something with your face!"

Dean looked puzzled suddenly. "What do you mean, Weird Bob called you?" He asked, recalling Sam's earlier mention of a telephone conversation.

Sam looked troubled and his eyes widened and flicked to something behind his brother's head. Oblivious, Dean continued sarcastically, "He's got our number?Fan-frikin-weirdo-tastic, now that means we've gotta get them changed!"

Sam burst out laughing. "Dude, seriously, you should do stand-up comedy." He laughed a little too hard to sound convincing.

"He's standing right behind me, isn't he?" Dean asked through gritted teeth. Sam nodded, curtailing his mock laughter abruptly.

Dean turned, an apologetic smile already fixed on his face. "Sorry, Mr. Gates. Concussion talking, I guess." He pointed at his head.

Bob gave him a look that would sour milk, and turning on his heel, he marched into the cabin, slamming the door behind him.

"You know, you could try to be grateful; he did just save your ass," Sam said pointedly.

"And my ass is truly grateful. Where's Kane?" Dean was anxious to change the subject.

"Bob has him locked up inside. He sure has issues with you."

"Who, Kane or Bob?" Dean laughed sourly, but quickly stopped. His face hurt.

"Good point." Sam smiled. "What happened to you, back on the hillside?"

"I'm not really sure," Dean said, blinking rapidly. "I know you'd only been gone a few minutes. I was thinking about..." he paused, biting his bottom lip, reluctant to admit he'd been obsessing over his sense of humor. "Something, it's not important, and then..." he shuddered as he recalled the nail puncturing his palm, his mouth watering as he fought against the urge to heave. "...I woke up here."

"Looks like those ninja reflexes need a little work." Sam didn't press the point; Dean looked extremely sorry for himself. "We were looking for you for almost two hours. I checked the site, in case you'd gone ahead. The hexagram's been destroyed. It looks like Spencer carried you down here to sacrifice you."

"Why here? And who's we?"

"I don't know, and Missouri and I."

"Where is she?" Dean asked, looking around the yard.

"She's inside with Kane. She's worried about him."

"She's not safe, Sam, we need to get her out of there." Dean got panicky at the chance that Missouri might in danger.

"She'll be fine. Bob has Kane trussed up like a turkey. He's not going anywhere."

"Kane's pumped up on spirit PCP, Sam. He killed and mutilated those men."

"Just take it easy," Sam said, restraining Dean as he tried to stand. "It's okay."

Dean allowed himself to relax under his brother's firm grip, suddenly feeling a gazillion years old. "He ripped those men to pieces, Sam. I thought...I thought I was going to be next..."

"You're fine, Dean. Everything's gonna be okay." Sam just held his brother's arms a little tighter. "So, it's gonna be dark soon, and if you're not likely to be insane for the next 30 minutes or so, how do you feel about getting on with the exorcism?"

Dean gave a weak smile. "Thanks for the sympathy, bro."

"You're welcome." Sympathy would have to take a back seat for the moment.

"And you can let me go now, unless you plan on asking me to dance?"

"Jerk." Sam mumbled as he got up, brushing dust from his jeans.

"How about giving me a hand?" Dean looked hopefully at his brother. He was getting bored of sitting on the stony ground, and his ass was going numb.

"Hold on, what's underneath you?" Sam asked as he bent to lend a hand.

"I believe that's called my numb ass!"

"More like dumb ass." Sam muttered under his breath as he brushed away the loose dirt from the deeper gouges. "Look, there're grooves scratched into the dirt."

"Chickens?" Dean grunted as Sam pulled him to his feet. As soon as he felt sure he wasn't going to fall over, he looked down. He made a face when he saw that his blood had run into and defined a man-made channel scratched into the hardened soil.

"Yeah, devil worshiping, hex drawing chickens." Sam said, standing back to get a better view. "I guess that's why he brought you all the way down here."

"I don't understand." Dean absentmindedly touched the sore spot on his head; maybe he was getting hit in the face too many times. "Why would Kane destroy one hex, only to draw another one here? It doesn't make sense."

"I did it," Bob interrupted, making the brothers jump. He continued proudly, "I destroyed the Sign on the hillside. I wanted the aliens to land here, not up there." He waved his hand in the general direction of the survey site.

"Have you actually seen any...aliens?" Dean couldn't help the way his face screwed up as he asked the question. But they needed to know just how far gone Bob was, and if he was a threat.

"No." Bob shook his head and looked miserable. "But I can sense them." He became more animated as he continued excitedly, "It's all about the signs. Have you seen the crop circles?"

The brothers shook their heads, neither of them sure whether Bob was the picnic, or just the one sandwich short.

"Have you experienced any migraines or nosebleeds lately?" Sam asked. They needed to know for sure.

"No." Bob shook his head, then his eyes lit up. "Are you talking about them alien probes, 'cause I've been having a little trouble..." His hand moved toward his rear.

"No," Sam interrupted. "Thanks, Mr. Gates, you've been really helpful."

"I'm going back inside," Bob said, turning toward his cabin. "I don't want to miss it when it changes," he said over his shoulder as he closed the door behind him.

"What have I missed?" Dean asked.

Sam laughed. "Bob's convinced Kane's an alien, because of his unearthly smell."

_SNSNSNSNSN_

"Plan B then?" Dean asked casually as Sam finished clearing the debris away from the hexagram.

"Yeah, it's a bit like Plan A."

"So, it's Plan A again?"

"Yeah." Sam grinned as he picked the last of the stones out of the grooves. "But this time you don't get overpowered by Skeletor."

"Hey, he might be skinny, but he's really strong."

Sam grimaced.

"Yeah, really strong." Dean mumbled as he took a sip from the hip flask his brother handed him, purely for medical purposes. Sam finished setting up the paraphernalia for the exorcism.

"Sam..." The grin faded from Dean's face as he bit his bottom lip. "I, uh, I don't totally trust myself." He couldn't tell Sam about his madness back at the motel.

"Just don't think about anything. It shouldn't be hard for you."

"Thanks, Sam." The image of the knife in his hand instantly invaded Dean's mind. "I don't mean about what I'm seeing. I'm talking about what I might do...to you."

"I trust you, Dean. You're not like normal people."

"Thanks again. Add insult to injury, why don't you!"

"No, I didn't mean it like that." Sam hadn't intended to sound insensitive. "You're not going to lose your mind, not when you've seen the real monsters."

Dean appeared mollified by Sam's explanation. "Well, at least you're not going to need me to open an artery." He nodded at the blood-soaked earth.

"No, I think there's more than enough," Sam said as he lit the black candle and took out the printout of the Thelemic summoning charm Bobby had sent. "Ready?"

"Sam?"

"Listen, Dean, unless it's me, ignore whatever you see."

Dean looked worried, really worried.

TBC


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N **Special thanks going to my beta's katriel1987 for volunteering to complete the horrible task of turning my ramblings into something readable and to Merisha for the occasional gentle prod and providing the spit to make it shiny. Any mistakes are of course my own.

**DISCLAIMER TYPE THINGY:- **Eric Kripke owns everything Supernatural. I'll put them all back when I've finished, I promise.

The Unusual Suspects

Chapter Ten

"Are you sure you did it right? " Dean finally blurted out after they'd waited, and then waited a little longer. Unable to contain his restlessness, he cast around, looking for signs that something - anything - was actually happening.

The summoning ritual had taken Sam all of two minutes to perform, which included the time he had spent struggling to light the damp sage, at least ten minutes prior.

Sam didn't respond. He just stood, hands jambed in his jeans front pockets, shoulders hunched against the coolness of the evening air, unblinking, staring at the hex as he waited.

Hellfire, lightening bolts or hails of flaming brimstone would have been welcome, just to break the tedium.

"How much longer do we have to wait?" Dean asked, fidgeting impatiently, unaware that his brother was becoming more uptight with each passing minute.

Sam looked dramatically at his watch and, said caustically, "Three minutes and forty-five seconds." He bit his tongue, admonishing himself as his brother threw him an imperious eyebrow raise. He was tense, and taking it out on Dean. "Sorry, I don't know. It'll be here soon enough, I guess." He was more than ready, fresh batteries where in his flashlight and the spare, two copies of the Roman exorcism ritual were safe inside plastic wallets. He had strewn enough salt that the ground glistened as though there had been an early frost, and a loaded shotgun nestled in his bag. He patted his jacket pockets, reassuring himself that the holy water was close at hand, the stick of chalk resting innocently in the back pocket of his jeans.

The last of the daylight was fading rapidly, red-streaked clouds scuttling across the sky as the northerly breeze blew fitfully. It was still light enough for Sam to keep an eye on his brother without being too obvious, he hoped. Dean was standing opposite him, near the back door of the cabin, occasionally touching his palm and the small gash on his head. Sam had grave concerns over Deans presence at the exorcism, but other than sedating him and locking him in the motel room, he really had no choice other than to keep a very watchful eye on his brother.

"You don't have a headache or anything, do you?" Sam asked, when Dean touched his forehead again.

"For crying out loud Sam, you must've asked me that a hundred times already. I promise, if I get so much as a twinge, I'll tell you." A glower briefly slipped over Dean's features, so fleetingly that Sam wasn't sure if he'd seen it, but he suddenly felt sick to his stomach.

Small beads of perspiration broke out across Dean's top lip; he was feeling very warm, pulling at the collar of his t-shirt uncomfortably. "Listen Sam," he forced himself to say. "If I hear voices in my head, you'll be the first to know."

"Actually you'll be the first to know, I'll be the second." Sam smiled trying to take the sting out of his words. "What exactly did Kane say to you?" He was still missing gaps of information.

"He told me he had to 'correct' those men. Take away what didn't belong." He remembered that Sam had been correcting him recently, too, he frowned at the thought.

"So why you? Why was he...?" Sam seemed reluctant to say the word.

"Trying to crucify me?" Dean finished in a callous tone, one eyebrow lifting "He was jealous." Come to think of it, was Sam jealous of him? After all, it had chosen him, just plain o'l Dean and not wonderful Mister 174 LSAT's, college boy Sammy.

Sam raised his eyebrows.

"He said I was perfect." The smile Dean attempted slid off his face. He really wasn't feeling so good. He swallowed hard. His ears buzzed, and he felt sick. Hardly surprising, since he'd been bashed on the head a couple too many times recently. And to add insult to injury he did seem to have a dull ache settling behind his eyes, but, he'd convinced himself that it definitely wasn't a headache. More likely stress, yeah, stress made a lot more sense.

"So, any clues as to what this big bad's gonna look like?" He didn't particularly care what the spirit looked like, but he made himself ask anyway because Sam appeared happier when he was chattering at him inanely. He was feeling far too hot now, and just itching to take his jacket off, but Sam was spying on his every move. He brushed his hand over the back of his neck irritably as the short hairs bristled. He had the feeling someone was watching him from behind, peering at him unseen from the black windows of the cabin sending another sharp shiver down his spine.

"It's everything that man's ever feared since climbing down from the treetops, rolled into one bad-ass spirit." Sam said unsmiling. "It's your worst nightmare"

Movement out of the corner of Sam's eye caught his attention. He blinked hard. The ground below the hex appeared to heave, as though something were being pushed from beneath the surface. His arms prickled with goose bumps as if icy fingers were brushing over his arm, and he gave an involuntary shudder.

"Dean. Look" Sam pointed towards the hex with his flashlight as he ground bulged and undulated, staggering on his feet as the earth below him shuddered again.

"It's here," he whispered as a black, oily substance began seeping through soil at the center of the hexagram. It ran purposely into the markings, as though following a pre-ordained course. The air above the hex wavered in a haze of heat, and the hairs on Sam's entire body stood on end as static energy charged the air.

"Shine the light over here, Dean." Sam said as he grabbed the chalk from his pocket. With deliberate, practiced strokes, he began to draw the anti-cursal hex symbols around the outside of the hexagram.

A deep rumble shook the ground, and Sam, who had been crouching down to finish the arcane symbols, overbalanced and landed on his backside, hard. He cursed and shuffled backwards as a viscous glob of black goo rose from the ground to form a dome. Though no more than three inches tall at its highest point, it covered the entire area of the hexagram. Holy shit, that couldn't be good.

"Crap. Dean?" No answer. What the hell was Dean doing? He certainly wasn't helping.

"Goddammit Dean. What are you waiting for, an invitation?" Sam swore and glanced up towards his brother.

Sam's eye widened in shock. Dean was just standing there, transfixed in the same spot, oblivious to the world around him. Blood pouring from his nose in sickening red rivulets, staring at the black goo, which pulsated and began to grow, pushing through the ground in an ever-increasing bubble.

"Shit. Dean c'mon, fight it. Fight it for me!" Sam shouted at his brother's frozen form, before scrambling back to his feet and quickly finished drawing the symbols. He snatched the Roman ritual from his bag, fighting the urge to check on his brother as he began the exorcism.

"Exorcizo te, omnis spiritus immunde, in nomine Dei Patris omnipotentis," he read aloud. He quickly glanced at his brother again.

Dean shuddered. Every word Sam spoke sent a new spasm of pain through his body. Why would Sam do that to him? Couldn't he see what he was doing? Realization became just as painful, Sam was doing this deliberately, Sam wanted to hurt him.

"Et in noimine Jesu Christi Filii ejus, Domini et Judicis nostri ...,"

Sam paused when Dean groaned in anguish, his knees buckling for an instant before straightening again. He'd succeeded in summoning Choronzon's spirit, but he couldn't stop now, not half way through the ceremony, not even for his brother.

" Et in virtute Spiritus Sancti, ut discedas ab hoc plasmate Dei..."

Dean could hear sounds, originating from inside the black bubble; then he heard a cry like a trapped animal shrieking in pain. Then the pitch changed to a woman screaming. The sound surging through his brain and making his ears ring painfully.

"Quod Dominus noster ad templum sanctum..."

It was a child, a child screaming in agony. Dean clapped his hands over his ears; the sound becoming unbearable, and his brother was causing it. Jealous. Controlling. Sam

"Suum vocare dignatus est, ut fiat templum Dei vivi, et Spiritus Sanctus..."

"Sam, stop." Dean gasped. He couldn't catch his breath. It hurt, god it hurt. "Please." He was suffocating, and Sam was just looking at him, laughing with delight.

Sam stumbled over his words when his brothers scream unexpectedly echoed in the night air, a sound like nothing he'd ever heard before. He'd heard Dean cry out in pain too many times to count, but this shriek made his blood run cold. Dean was screaming as though his soul was being ripped from his body. Sam started to move towards his stricken brother, who was desperately clutching at the sides of his head, but stopped in his tracks as the ground trembled and a geyser of obsidian blackness rose in a tall column. Twelve feet high, covering the circumference of the hexagram, twisting and rotating on it's own axis, like an evil totem pole.

Sam stood awestruck as he watched the black obelisk rotate. Multiple voices came from within the darkness, whispering so lowly that Sam couldn't make out what they were saying. But he heard one voice rise above the indistinct mumblings: his brother's voice, begging him to stop.

"Snap out of it Dean ... please" Sam begged as he shook his brother gently. Dean was spellbound by the black geyser. "C'mon back to me, man." Sam cajoled, and reached out to his brother. He tried to steer Dean away from the obelisk, which was putting off scorching heat that threatened to singe their hair.

Sam's face was twisted in rage, he was snarling. Dean watched, fixated, as Sam's lips quivered to reveal his teeth, and then a growl issued from deep within Sam's chest. Dean recoiled as Sam snapped at him, teeth clicking together where Dean's nose had been a fraction of a second earlier. Fear coursed through him as he pushed his brother hard on the chest, knocking Sam back and away from him.

"What the hell?" Sam said as he stumbled back, still feeling the pressure of Dean's hands on his chest.

Somewhere in his subconscious Dean knew what he was seeing couldn't possibly be happening, because Sam was changing in front of his eyes, face elongating into a distinct muzzle. It wasn't real, couldn't be real, but he was looking at it, seeing with his own eyes. His attention was drawn away from that terrible face, turning again as the sounds from the obelisk swelled, becoming clearer; whatever was inside the maelstrom was dragging itself closer to the physical world. Dean knew then, with absolute certainty, that the creature in front of him wasn't Sam. Whatever he or _it _was, it was there to stop him and he also knew that whatever it took, he had to get the the obelisk.

"Dean, no," Sam shouted as his brother walked like a marionette toward the pillar.

It was hot, too hot, but Dean had to reach out and touch it. It needed him; it called to him, he wouldn't fail _it, _not liked he had failed Sam. The hairs on the back of his hand singed as he continued to reach forward, faces swirled in the blackness, terrible visages twisted in torment, calling out to him, begging him to join them. It was irresistible.

The Sam creature grabbed him, spinning him round and pushing him away from the place he needed to be. He landed hard, hitting the ground with force, and something dug painfully into the small of his back. He scrambled back to his feet as the creature that used to be his brother advanced. The thing drooled, its teeth chattering together as its legs elongated, forcing it to drop to all fours. What the hell was happening ... "Sam." Dean called out weakly, all remaining vestiges of reasoning finally slipping away as the creature stalked him. Then something was in his hand, something familiar and comforting lay nestled in his palm - his .35. He had no memory of taking the gun from the back of his jeans, no memory of automatically pointing it at the thing that used to be his brother, and aiming it at its head.

Sam stood stock still as the gun shook in his brother's outstretched hand. Dean didn't seem to actually be looking at him anymore, his terrified gaze had moved to something a lot closer to the ground than himself.

It called Dean; he could feel the power of the obelisk flowing through him as the air throbbed and pulsed. Something was trying to emerge; he could feel it, and he welcomed it.

Sam lunged with unexpected speed as soon as Dean's attention was pulled back to the swirling pillar. Grabbing Dean from behind, Sam pinned his brother's arms to his sides. He felt the muscles in Dean's right arm flex, and heard the click of the hammer as Dean pulled the trigger of the empty gun, which pointed uselessly at the ground.

Dean twisted and ducked under the creature's hold and pushed on its chest with all his strength. Throwing the useless gun at the creature's head, he swung with his fists at the thing that used to be his brother.

Sam ducked as the gun flew over his head, and then, in a heartbeat, his brother was upon him. He yelped in pain as Dean blindly lashed out and caught his already injured arm. He shielded his arm the best he could while fending off his brother's attack, until Dean grabbed him, spun him around and caught him by the neck, making him gag.

Dean held the creature's head in an arm lock. Flexing his arm muscles and tightening his chokehold around its neck.

Sam scrabbled at Dean's arm, tearing at the material of his shirt sleeve. He didn't want to hurt Dean, but his brother was attempting to throttle the life out of him.

The sound of a door crashing open and voices raised in alarm distracted Dean from his deadly task.

Sam straightened, and taking advantage of the confusion, rammed his elbow hard into his brother's ribs as a wizened, shrieking figure ran between them. Its arms flailing at impossible angles as it streaked towards the black pillar. Sam heard Dean shout in pain as he landed on the ground a few feet away, but Sam's attention was on Kane, the man had completely lost it, and was running towards the maelstrom laughing maniacally.

"Kane, no!" Sam cried, and lunged after Kane, attempting to stop him as he launched himself at the black pillar. The heat was too intense. Sam felt his skin blister on the top of his hand, and quickly pulled it back. Kane disappeared into the geyser, sucked inside with a sickening wet noise.

"SAM!," Missouri screamed, standing near the back door in her stocking feet, her face an image of absolute fright.

"Get back inside," Sam shouted hoarsely, rubbing at his sore throat with one hand and pointing to the door with the other. He needed her out of harms way right now.

"His arms, Sam, he broke both arms to escape." Missouri cried, tears spilling down her cheeks. Sam could only guess what she'd witnessed in Kane's desperate attempts to escape his bonds.

Bob appeared behind Missouri, an awed expression fixed on his face as he stared at the pillar of darkness. "Bob, get her back inside," Sam ordered. "GO!." He yelled when Bob hesitated. The last thing he needed was Bob being drawn into the battle, he had his hands full enough already. He watched as Bob finally dragged his eyes away, placing a protective arm around Missouri's shoulders, and guiding her quickly back inside the cabin.

"Dean?" Sam looked at his fallen brother, he hadn't moved, and his heart instantly started hammering in his chest. He didn't know whether Dean was conscious or not. He wanted desperately to check but he had to finish the exorcism before it was too late.

Sam's hands shook as he picked up the exorcism ritual. He glanced at the pillar again, which spun faster, bulging out in uneven shapes as something inside struggled to get out. He felt dizzy as he watched it, his mind clouding, suddenly strangely excited by the thought of the demon within. It called to him, beckoning him, drawing him to it. He wanted to take a step forward but managed to stop himself.

"NO!"

Shaking his head he pushed the demented thoughts from his mind.

"Habitet in eo. Per eumdem Christum Dominum nostrum."

A pulse of raw energy emanated from the maelstrom, almost knocking Sam off his feet. He staggered, trying to keep his balance. The voices were screaming at him, the very air surrounding him rushing past with the intensity of a freight train derailing.

"Qui venturus est judicare vivos et mortuos," he shouted above the clamor.

And then dead silence.

Sam hadn't finished the exorcism. That shouldn't have happened.

"Et saeculum per ignem." He continued hesitantly. Something was wrong, very wrong. The obelisk had stopped spinning, but it still towered overhead. Sam shied away, quickly covering his head, as the black tower shimmered and emitted a blast of steaming heat before collapsing in on itself, rending a split across the ground from one side of the hex to the other. Definitely not a good sign.

Kane's burnt and twisted body lay curled in a tight ball in the center of the hexagram, amidst the now-viscous substance. The smell of scorched flesh making him want to hurl, instead he leaned over coughing violently.

Sam paced, covering his mouth, unsure what to do next. Dean was still lying spread-eagled on his back near the cabin. Should he go to him, or complete the exorcism? The question soon answered itself as Kane began to twitch. His skin was charred black, and parts of his skull and leg bones now poked through his burnt flesh. He couldn't still be alive, could he? Surely it wasn't possible? Yet, to Sam's horror, he was moving.

Kane's legs straightened with the sound of an old leather book being opened after years of storage. His burnt clothing fell away in tatters as he turned onto his front. His tightened skin split open on the backs of his knees, revealing cooked muscle. His broken arms bent in the wrong places as he somehow managed to move them in front of his body.

Sam was drawn towards Kane as he struggled to move towards the cabin. He gagged again as the strong stench of cooked flesh seeped into his nostrils. Swallowing down the bile that rose in his throat, he reached out towards the dying man, wandering sickly if he should just shoot him to put him out of his misery.

Kane's back suddenly arched away from the ground, shaking off the loose, blackened clothing, stripping off melted material that clung to his body, welded to his burnt skin.

Sam stared in repulsion as a fluid-filled blister rose from Kane's shoulders all the way down to his buttocks. The blister grew until it was as long as Kane's body and twice as fat. It looked like a giant, fluid-filled maggot lying in the dirt.

Sam's eyes widened as the maggot pulsated and jerked, and finally, slowly, it rolled away from Kane's now raw and still body.

That was when Sam understood.

Kane was the host.

He had delivered Choronzon.

TBC


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N **Special thanks going to my beta's katriel1987 for volunteering to complete the horrible task of turning my ramblings into something readable and to Merisha for the occasional gentle prod (with a 50 volt cow prodder!) and providing the spit to make it shiny. Any mistakes are of course my own.

**DISCLAIMER TYPE THINGY:- **Eric Kripke owns everything Supernatural. I'll put them all back when I've finished, I promise.

**A/N **This chapter is a little gory! And thank you all for your reviews, you've made a newbie very happy.

The Unusual Suspects

Chapter Eleven

Choronzon fought with fanged tooth and taloned nail to enter this world. Sam watched with dread as its dark silhouette skittered in a frenzy of activity and heard the sound of its distorted keening from within the gelatinous walls of the pale cocoon, which bulged as it tried to force its way out.

Sam dropped the exorcism ritual, and it fluttered to the ground, forgotten in his haste to reach the canvas bag. Heart pounding, he fumbled and cursed loudly as the strap appeared to deliberately hinder his movements. Breathing deeply and trying to keep calm, he finally pulled out the shotgun and held it in less than steady hands.

The cocoon pulsated rhythmically, as if moving to the sound of unheard music. The beat increased, and the grub like structure vibrated frantically. Choronzon was about to be spawned.

Sam aimed and pulled the trigger, and the shotgun thundered, spewing forth an explosion of light as the rock salt cartridges propelled from both barrels at the center of the maggot. The cocoon burst, sending spurts of amniotic-like fluid spraying into the air, which landed, spattering the ground in sizzling hot slimy globs.

He'd definitely hit it - not just the cocoon, but the creature inside. All was silent, and for a brief second Sam thought he'd actually managed to deafen himself with the roar of the gunshot as his ears rang painfully, but then, it suddenly shrieked. Sam dropped the empty shotgun as he covered his ears with his hands to block the screams of the creatures as it thrashed in fury, sending gouts of black gore flying from the rupture torn in it's now defunct protective enclosure.

Then all was still again.

Sam momentarily tore his eyes from the split cocoon as he looked to see if Dean was moving, and he was. His brother was moving his arms, albeit weakly in an attempt to raise himself. Sam fancied he heard his brother mumble something which sounded like 'Kill Sam'. His throat spasmed, and unconsciously, he touched his tender neck.

"Dean?" Sam said tentatively. He wanted to make sure Dean was okay, but he didn't want to fight with him, nor did he want to step over the fleshy maggot case which blocked his path.

Curiosity getting the better of him, he pulled out his handgun and, taking one step forward, tried to peer into the split husk closest to him. The outside walls were criss-crossed by the thin blue lines of Spencer Kane's blood supply. A few tufts of Kane's hair, which hadn't burned, remained attached in ugly patches. Somehow the hair made the idea of the skin cocoon even more repulsive.

Empty of its fluid, the skin envelope had collapsed in on itself, covering its contents as though coveting them jealously. Sam shuddered in disgust as he looked around and seeing a thin but long stick, picked it up. Almost guiltily he took a quick look at his brother. To his relief, Dean was still moving, clearly coming too. He really should be checking on his brother, not messing about, poking something with a stick!

He was still reluctant to step over the cocoon. It seemed too easy for it to end like this, with just one shot. He felt oddly agitated, knowing Dean needed his help, itching to move to him, but not wanting to leave the cocoon.

"Sam." Dean groaned weakly. He was barely holding onto consciousness, feeling as though he were being drained of all his remaining energy, but he knew he had to get Sam to kill the creature.

Sam glanced up at his name. The end of the stick wavering nervously no more than an inch above the cocoon. Dean had stopped moving, but he was compelled to look, see what was inside; this was more important than Dean. He paused momentarily in confusion, rubbing at his ears as they continued to buzz. He returned to raising the rubbery flap of skin.

Lifting the opening, Sam quickly whipped his head around, folding over as he gagged and coughed at the rancid stink that billowed out to from the cocoon. Eyes still watering he grabbed a lungful of air before turning his head back for a closer look. The skin had stretched so thin, it was translucent enough to allow the moonlight to shine through. He still couldn't make out any detail of the dark shadow that lay huddled at the bottom of the case. Taking his flashlight, he shone it at the mass.

There were pieces of something, parts of a body which Sam didn't recognize, scattered across the insides. Three large appendages remained in tact, one of which looked suspiciously like a tail. He'd done a good job all right. He was instantly overcome with deep feelings of regret, that he was the cause of the creatures demise. He blinked, pinching the bridge of his nose, trying to clear the fog. But had it really been his fault? He glared at his motionless brother as rage surged through his body. Hadn't Dean been the cause of all this? Hadn't Dean been responsible for everything that had gone wrong in his life? He had taken seven kinds of crap from him recently. And who knew, maybe even before that, when he was still a baby, no more than six months old... after all, Dean did love fire.

_Where the hell was that buzzing coming from? _He thought, shaking his head as if to dispel the sound. But then he remembered his brother hadn't been the only one who'd had to endure anguish in his life, he'd suffered just as much if not more, rage boiled in his chest at the thought of his brother. There was Jess, she'd still be alive if Dean hadn't come back to find him, dragging him into a life he didn't want to live. Dean might as well have set her on fire himself.

The raw end of the other skin envelope flapped. Sam swung his flashlight at the open end, which pointed at Dean's unmoving body. Sam cursed aloud, his senses returning, dammit, he'd left his brother defenseless.

"Shit." Sam staggered back reeling. Now he knew what Dean had been going through. And that had only lasted seconds, compared to the attacks his brother had had to endure.

Something began crawling out of the sagging cocoon grabbing Sam's attention again. He could see its outline moving beneath the thin membrane, his flashlight pulling eerie shapes out of the smoothness. He licked his lips nervously. The creature had started using its long fingers to pull itself out, gouging furrows in the compact earth with its steely claws as it dragged itself forward. Its muscular arms bulged underneath its smooth, glistening black skin as it emerged slowly.

Its body trembled violently as it shrieked and screamed. The very air around it pulsating in synchronized time, and Sam felt the ground vibrate with each dreadful wail. A small, round, hairless head appeared, bobbing and weaving side to side as it struggled forward. The head was followed by an impossibly broad pair of shoulders as it continued to drag itself out of the cocoon, away from Sam and toward Dean. Sam's light illuminated its journey; the beam wobbled unsteadily as his hands shook. Mesmerized, he didn't notice when the light glinted off his brothers panicked wide eyed stare.

"Kill it Sam!" Dean yelled. But his younger sibling didn't move, his blank gaze transfixed. Dean wasn't sure what had just happened. One moment he'd been fighting with Sam, who had morphed into some kind of Lycan. Now, Sam was standing unmoving behind something very large and black with milky white eyes, something which was sliding across the ground, clawing its way towards him. Dean didn't know if what he was seeing was real, but the ear-splitting shrieking and the puke inducing stench seemed enough to convince him it was genuine.

Skin tingling with fear, Dean quickly scooted backwards until he bumped into something solid, not willing to break eye contact with the creature that slithered across the ground. He reached behind him, and his fingers brushed over the rough surface of the logs piled near the door, stopping him from further retreat. His heart hammered in his chest, Choronzon was no more than fifteen feet away and gaining ground. Pushing hard with his legs, his arms practically useless due to his injured chest, he tried to use the log pile to lift himself up. He only managed to raise himself a matter inches before his legs gave way, dropping him back to the ground with a painful jolt. He huffed painfully, knowing Sammy wouldn't or couldn't help him, but he had to get through to his brother somehow.

A series of bony ridges ran down the center of the creature's back, marking its spine. Deep evenly-spaced grooves, resembling ribs radiated from its backbone and curled around its sides. To Sam, they looked like the serrations which marked a worm's body; contracting and expanding with each movement the beast made. Each expansion revealed a pale pink membrane that lay between the serrations. It was hypnotic and exquisite to watch.

The creature's body tapered towards its narrow waist, and at the point where Sam expected to see its lower limbs, its torso suddenly truncated into a mass of sinew, bone and shredded black skin. Sam had most definitely hit the creature when it was still in the cocoon and had effectively cut it in half.

He suddenly became aware of another sound that was almost drowned out by the screams coming from the creature. Familiar, he knew that voice, it was Dean.

"Kill it Sammy." Dean was yelling frantically now. The creature was almost within arms reach of him.

Sam jerked, as though waking from a nightmare. In one fluid movement, he'd raised and aimed his handgun, emptying the clip into Choronzon's writhing back. _Pop-thwack _sounded as the rounds found their mark, sending gouts of black ooze flying from the creatures back and into the air. Choronzon screamed and twisted as it tried to escape the unexpected agony being inflicted upon it.

Mewling in pain, the creature shuddered and arched its back. Thick black blood pulsed from the gunshot wounds, flushing out the mangled bullets Sam had just pumped into it. Patches of pink immediately bloomed on the creatures back where the bullets had entered. Its skin was knitting together, healing in front of Sam's incredulous eyes.

Sam quickly reached into his pocket for a fresh clip; all fingers, he practically juggled the gun as he reloaded. Taking aim again, he squeezed off the rounds, concentrating the bullets into one area, where he prayed its dark heart beat.

"You're not killing it Sam, your just pissing it off!" Dean yelled as the creature reared up and made a grab for his leg.

"Shit." Sam cursed, he was running out of ammunition and weapons.

"The holy water, use the holy water!" Dean shouted as adrenalin surged through his body, giving him enough short-lived strength to drag himself to his feet and away from the sharp claws that had already ripped through his jeans.

Sam pulled the container from his jacket. His hands shook violently as he popped the top open, so much so, that he spilled a quarter of it contents on his shoes.

"Shit, shit, shit!" He exclaimed. _Don't fall to pieces, not now. _He took careful aim with the remaining liquid. He knew without any doubt that if the creature reached his brother, Dean would be dead, and the cycle would start again - but this time Choronzon would be complete, and unstoppable.

The water hit the beast between its shoulder blades. Choronzon wailed as the liquid burned through its hide like acid. Sam could only watch disgusted as steam rose from its skin, boiling and blistered in a bubbling froth. Blisters formed over the raw wounds, roiling as though hundreds of maggots had crawled beneath its hide. The blisters oozed sickly down its flanks, leaving angry looking welts cratering its back. But to make matters worse ... now it was really pissed.

The beast turned and fixed its sight on Sam.

Sam took several involuntary steps back, as it scuttled around and revealed its hideous countenance. Its mouth, split its face from one side to the other. Its lip-less maw opened, revealing row upon row of needle sharp-teeth. A snake-like tongue protruded and flicked in and out, as if testing and tasting the young hunter. An array of short worm-like sensors protruded from gill slits where its nose should have been. The sensors thrashed wildly as though imbued with a life of their own. The creature's milky white eyes shone with pent-up fury.

Choronzon pulled itself over the tatters of its own shredded lower body. Head thrown back, it crawled toward Sam, shrieking.

"Sammy." Dean yelled as he saw his brother drop to his knees, his face pained and luminescent in the moonlight.

The beast screamed in Sam's head, deadening the rest of the world as he collapsed. Then it was whispering to him, soothing him, telling him he was the one. He felt overwhelming relief, hardly aware of his brother screaming at him, it needed him ... Choronzon needed him.

"No." Sam gasped, fighting the beast's magnetic pull.

Choronzon reached out with a clawed hand. Euphoria swept through Sam's body; it wanted _him, _not Dean. Sam stretched out his own hand. It had always been him, he was the chosen one and he was willing to offer himself, this was meant to be.

Their fingers almost touched. Sam could feel the power flowing between them, entering him, making his arm tingle. He would be the deliverer.

Choronzon's arm jerked and shook uncontrollably as a loud and irritating insect drone filled Sam's ears. The arm and hand, which had almost reached him, dropped woodenly onto the dirt, Sam fell backwards as the hold the beast had over him, was suddenly broken.

His brother was standing shakily between them, shrouded by acrid smoke from the vibrating chainsaw. The saw's black stained metal teeth sprayed demon blood into the night sky. Dean had separated the creatures arm from the rest of its body.

"Nice." Dean grinned at his brother, attempting to strike a Bruce Campbell/Evil Dead style pose with the chainsaw and failing miserably when he didn't have the strength to raise it again.

The beast howled in response and swiped its remaining arm in an arc, knocking Dean's wobbly legs from under him even as he attempted to side step it. He wasn't his normal agile self. The chainsaw clattered away from him and died as his finger released the safety trigger, he crashed to the ground, landing hard on his side which knocked his breath away.

_Not good, this is so not good! _Dean thought as he watched the beast, and tried to move. _Definitely something broken now._ He tried to take a tentative breath and almost screamed as he felt a massive jolt of pain in his chest; he was going nowhere.

"The head, Sam," Dean groaned as he tried to crawl, attempting to put some distance between himself and the creature, which floundered as it pursued him for the second time. "Go for the head!"

Sam dove for the chainsaw praying it would actually start, mentally crossing his fingers in a hope to ward off their usual penchant for bad luck.

It did, the first time.

Sam didn't have time to breathe a sigh of relief. The beast with only one arm and only half a body was, incredibly, making better progress than Dean, who was failing fast.

_C'mon Sammy! _Dean could feel Choronzon's hot breath on him, it was that close. _I didn't mean those things, you know that! _He could hear the sickening sound of Choronzon's blood gushing from its severed stump, feel it dripping hot onto his legs. He could barely move, just fighting to stay conscious, he felt it grab his leg. The little strength he had been clinging to instantly flowed away, and he was left with nothing.

Approaching the beast from behind, Sam plunged the chainsaw into the soft tissue between its massive shoulder blades. He hardly needed to exert any pressure; the saw's teeth ripped easily through its hide and into muscle. Juddering as it hit bone, the chainsaw veered upwards toward the creatures stumpy neck, where it took out a notch of its flesh.

Gouts of black blood pumped from the creature's neck as it reared again, silent and deadly, its eyes white now colored black as its blood vessels ruptured.

Sam slashed, back and forth, like a thoughtless killing machine, shredding the creature until it fell silent, mortally wounded.

He raked the sawing teeth across its abdomen."That was for me." He said triumphantly.

"And this." Sam yelled as he raised the chainsaw for the killing blow, severing its head, "... is for my brother!"

TBC


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N **Special thanks going to my beta's katriel1987 for volunteering to complete the horrible task of turning my ramblings into something readable and to Merisha for the occasional gentle prod (using a picture of a sad cat!) and providing the spit to make it shiny. Any mistakes are of course my own.

**DISCLAIMER TYPE THINGY:- **Eric Kripke owns everything Supernatural. I'll put them all back when I've finished, I promise.

**A/N **I thank everyone of you for reading and reviewing my second attempt at writing fiction. I enjoyed every single moment writing it, and I hope that's come across in the telling. For any anonymous reviewers, I thank you too.

The Unusual Suspects

Chapter Twelve

Breathing heavily and barely able to stop himself staggering from fatigue, Sam let the now-silent chainsaw to drop to the ground. It had sputtered and died in his hands as he had cut Choronzon's head from its shoulders. Sam allowed himself a grim smile; it wasn't every day that their infamous luck held out to the end.

_Dean,_ he thought. He was standing there grinning and congratulating himself, while his brother could be...No. He immediately dismissed the thought.

"Dean?" Sam said hesitantly. He stared at his motionless brother, who was propped at an uncomfortable angle against the pile of logs, eyes closed. _He wouldn't lie like that, unless..._

"Dean?" he repeated more urgently, moving toward his brother on stiff, reluctant legs, his heart pounding harder than when he'd been fighting the beast. Kneeling uncertainly next to his brother he tried to find any signs of life. Dean's chest was rising only slightly, but it was enough for Sam to see; he almost collapsed with relief, allowing himself to breathe again.

He watched as Dean's unfocused eyes fluttered open to settle on him. "Hey," Dean said, his voice croaking. He shifted slightly, his face was taut, breathing ragged and clearly causing him pain. He nodded at his exhausted younger brother and gave him a cocky smile, which failed to reach his weary eyes. "Did I get it?" He asked, lifting his head as he looked around, surveying the carnage that glinted darkly in the moonlight.

"No, but I did," Sam said, attempting to shake stubborn bits of gore from his clothing. He had to resort to flicking it off with his fingers while making a disgusted face. "Just single-handedly saved the human race...again ...is all!" He flopped to the ground beside his brother before his legs could betray him.

"Lacks my finesse, Sammy," Dean said jokingly, gesturing at the minced demon that was scattered, well, just about everywhere. "Man, I gotta get me one of those." He nodded toward the chainsaw. "Do you think Bob would miss it?" Was Sam avoiding meeting his eyes? He couldn't tell.

Sam gave him a faint smile, his face revealing nothing. "Hospital?" He asked, knowing the response he would receive before it came.

Dean shook his head vehemently and groaned again as he struggled to sit up. He pressed his hand against his battered, bruised, cracked and broken ribs. _Great,_ he thought, _way to_ _crack another crappy joke! __Another precious Hallmark moment …_ _what better way to say 'sorry I pointed a gun at your head __Sammy_ _and tried to kill you'?_ He was truly pathetic.

Dean looked guiltily at his brother. He knew Sam was about to speak; he'd just cleared his throat and he looked like the last puppy left in the pet store on Christmas Eve, damn that wretched look, got him right in the solar plexus every time.

"Dean, I'm..." Sam began.

"I didn't hurt you, did I?" Dean interrupted quickly. There was absolutely no way he was going to let his brother apologize for that forceful dig in the ribs, not when he had been fighting for his life. He shuddered thinking just how close he'd come to actually killing Sam.

"Only here," Sam said, placing his hand over his heart. Dean instantly looked stricken.

"Hey, I'm just joking," Sam said quickly backtracking when he saw the expression on his brother's face. God he was an idiot sometimes. The bruises on his body would fade, as would the rawness inside, but he knew both he and Dean would take a while to recover from the emotional strain. "Besides, you suck at strangling!" He added, nudging Dean's arm gently and giving him a slight grin.

"I'm really sorry, Sam." Dean could hardly bring himself to look at his brother. Sam might have said he was just joking, but Dean figured there was more than a hint of truth hidden behind his words. "I wasn't seeing you when I pointed the gun...at you." He gave a lopsided shrug and continued. "In my mind it wasn't you Sam, but what I did, it was unforgivable."

Maybe if he kept talking he wouldn't have to think. His actions had been one thing, but what he'd said to Sam was a different matter entirely. He may have been driven to say those things by Choronzon, and it hurt him to even think of it, but those words had come out of _his_ mouth anyway. And he'd made his feelings pretty clear when he'd told Sam he begrudged him _everything_. Sam wasn't stupid; he'd just shown how hurt he'd been, some things you just couldn't take back. And his brother would hate him, which was okay, because if he was honest with himself, Sam couldn't possibly hate him more than he hated himself right now. Maybe Missouri was right, he thought as he added another truckload of bad karma to his already impressive collection.

"It was in my head, Sammy, like some kind of worm, pushing around, putting thoughts in there..." Dean suddenly stopped; he didn't want his brother's sympathy, didn't deserve it, instead he let his gaze fall to Choronzon's severed arm.

"You think I don't know what it's like to point a gun at someone..." Sam paused. He knew Dean had no desire to discuss what had happened a few months ago at the asylum, but some things needed to be said. "...at your own brother?" Sam shook his head, because what he'd done was worse; he'd actually pulled the trigger. "Forget it."

"No, Sam, I can't." A muscle in Dean's jaw twitched as he searched for the right words to say. "It's not so much what I did, it's what I said..."

"Well, forget it. I have."

Dean shot his brother an incredulous look. Surely Sam wasn't supposed to forgive him that easily?

"So you think my thoughts are always pure, Dean? 'Cause I can tell you right now, they're not."

"I know, but..." He trailed off. But what? But Sam _doesn't_ say terrible things? Actually, he had. Admittedly not recently, but he hadn't pulled his punches when he'd left for Stanford.

"If I ask you to stop, will you?" Sam said quietly.

"Huh?"

"Stop beating yourself up over something you couldn't control, okay?"

"Yeah, but..." Dean opened his mouth to continue, but Sam held up his hand and interrupted.

"And will you stop apologizing?" Sam refused to let his brother torture himself, and he was damn sure he wasn't going to allow Dean another scab he could pick raw. "It used its whammy on me too Dean. It could easily have been me instead of you," he threw his brother a sad smile.

"Yeah, but..." Dean started, but was stopped again.

"Dean, I don't have an issue with this, okay. There was nothing you could do, I couldn't fight it either."

"Yeah, but..."

"Look at the effect you had on Missouri!" Sam interrupted as he recalled her reaction to touching Dean whilst he was in the throws of an attack.

"And I state once again for the record, I'm irresistible." Dean smiled slyly, deliberately misunderstanding his brother. "Actually Sammy. What I was trying to say was, you've got some funky stuff in your hair."

Sam made a face at his brother, he knew it was Dean's way of dealing with his emotions, and he accepted it. "We can always ask Missouri's opinion ..." He brushed his hand through his hair, just in case Dean was actually telling the truth. "… and bite me," he said when his hand came away clean.

Dean grinned and clutched his side tensely, attempting to stifle a chuckle. "Don't make me laugh Sammy, it hurts. Besides, I think Missouri has already stated her preference."

"How so?"

"Well, it was me she was having her kinky dreams about."

"Yeah, but you're forgetting that it was _me_ she tried to suffocate in a love embrace with her...things."

Sam waived his hands broadly in front of his chest.

"Aw, man! I _so_ do not want that image in my head!"

"Yeah," Sam snorted. "I guess that was a little too much information." Unable to stop himself laughing, he let out a guffaw and fell back next to Dean, his body shacking with ill-contained mirth as he practically bit his tongue to keep from laughing out loud.

"Oww. Stop, please," Dean snorted, his chest spasming uncomfortably at his restrained laughter, which was made worse by Sam's uncontrollable fit of giggles. "Sorry I threw the gun at you, too. I didn't hit you, did I?" It didn't feel right to laugh with the same abandon as his brother, at least not yet.

"Nah, no chance. You throw like a girl!" Sam laughed harder, barely able to breathe.

The sound of tiny scuttling feet emerged from the tear in the ground, causing a sudden halt to their laughter. They shone their flashlights in the direction of the sound, and there, reflected in the beams, a small pair of eyes stared back at them. Dean's heart nearly stopped.

"Do you see that?" Dean whispered, all thoughts of laughter instantly forgotten.

"Yeah." Sam laughed in relief as he watched a large rat wriggle out of the split in the ground, then scuttle into nearby undergrowth. "It's just a rat."

"It's more than that, Sammy...it's a rat out of hell!" Dean said lamely, looking at his brother out of the corner of his eye, waiting for Sam's amused reaction and wondering if he was going to correct him instead. "You know, like the Meatloaf song..." Dean prompted. "...like a Bat out of Hell!"

Sam just shook his head, chuckling in defeat as he held out a helping hand to his 'rat-o-phobic' older brother.

'_Yup, humor, the gift that keeps on giving'_ Dean thought, grinning back as he accepted his brother's help.

_SNSNSNSNSN_

"Did you have to half-blind Bob with your flashlight?" Sam said, his face thrown into dancing silhouette by the waning flames.

"C'mon, Sam, you saw him. He loved it." Dean forced a grin and threw another stick onto the pyre where, an hour earlier, they'd cremated Spencer Kane's remains.

"Yeah, I suppose he did." Sam smiled. "But did you have to tell him we're the real Men In Black?"

"No, I didn't have to, but that guy's picture is in the dictionary right under the word 'gullible'. Speaking of which, I wonder how Missouri's getting on."

Sam threw a glance at Missouri, he could just see her inside the now-lighted cabin. He had no idea what she and Bob were discussing; for all he knew, she could be using her hoodoo, voodoo, juju on him. God alone knew what story she was feeding him about the abomination they were currently barbecuing.

They stood before the dying fire where the foul remains of the creature had been duly salted and burned. Thick, acrid black smoke, smelling vaguely of burnt tires drifted up to obscure the dead moon which had risen high overhead.

Dean stared into the embers as they crackled, sending sparks of hot ash floating into the night sky. He'd accepted that sometimes it wasn't possible to save everyone; there would always be collateral damage. But he'd failed Kane spectacularly, and he hated to think about his offhand manner toward the poor bastard when he'd been alive. He knew that being civil to Kane wouldn't have saved him, but he might not be feeling so guilty right now if he had.

"We'll call the Sheriff's Office once we've put a few miles behind us, let them know where the other bodies are," Dean said finally, as the last of the flames died. "They'll probably put it down to some kind of wild animal attack."

Sam nodded; at least this way the families would have closure of sorts. "C'mon," Sam said as he turned away from the pyre. "We'd better not keep Missouri waiting on us any longer than necessary." He motioned to Missouri through the glass to let her know that they were ready to leave; she acknowledged him with a wave of her hand.

"No, I guess not." Dean tried to shrug away the heaviness resting on his chest, rubbing his tightly taped ribs absently. "You're driving." He carefully tossed the car keys at his brother, left-handed. Sam snatched them out of the air as they sailed off course, and grinned; he was sorely tempted to point out, once again, his brother's lack of prowess in the throwing department ... but then again Dean was hurt, and sore, and tired … he wasn't exactly at the top of his game, didn't mean he couldn't milk it though.

"Hey, what's the hurry?" Dean asked as Sam walked briskly ahead.

"Oh, I just want to check something on the Internet."

"Anything special?"

"Yeah, actually." Sam turned and walked backwards facing Dean, a smirk on his face. "It's a gift for you."

"Thanks, Sam, I—I'm touched. What is it?"

"I've placed a bid on some sacrificial underwear for you."

"You what?"

"Size small."

"Hey!" Dean shouted at Sam's retreating back as he ran toward the Impala. Dean laughed. He'd find a way to make it up to Sam, make it right between them again, no matter what it took, despite that underwear remark … the bitch!

He was still grinning when he heard the cabin door creak open as he limped by. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Missouri exit the building, bidding goodbye to Bob with another wave of her hand. She smiled at Dean, relieved to see him more or less intact. Dean returned her smile, and this time, the expression reached and crinkled his eyes. He promised himself that he'd make it up to her too.

"Rough night?" Missouri asked casually as she walked with him at a snail's pace toward the Impala.

"I've had worse," Dean said tiredly.

"Dean, I'd like for you and Sam to come stay at my place for a few days. Give yourselves a bit of a break, some time to heal."

"Yeah?" Dean's eyebrows shot up in surprise, that was the last thing he expected. "Well, yeah, if you're sure it wouldn't be a problem."

"No problem at all. Oh, just one thing," Missouri paused, one hand resting on the roof of the Impala, the other on the car handle, an odd smile playing across her lips. "So as there's no misunderstanding, I actually prefer Bobby." She chuckled softly as she deposited herself into the back seat.

The blushing smile still lingered as Dean slid gingerly into the passenger seat. The thought of spending a few days with his brother, just relaxing, not hunting, was a pleasant one. Glancing out the window, Dean took a final look at the scene as dawn threatened to break. The cabin looked no different, and soon daylight would come and push the shadows away as if nothing had happened.

Sam started the engine and pulled away from Bob's cabin. As the scene faded from view, Dean promised himself that the next time his brother gave him a choice of hunts, Mrs Henderson's 'toast Jesus' would be at the top of the list.

The End

_In loving memory of my father_

_who passed away 15 September 2007_

**A/N Hello, you can stop now if you want to, or you can go on and read the epilogue. It's your decision.**

_EPILOGUE_

Bob Gates sat on his top step and lit a cigarette. The smoke billowed into his face, stinging his eyes, as he surveyed the devastation in his back yard. He sighed as he flicked at a dark blob of something, using his fingernails to pry it off the step beside him. He held it up to his face and examined it carefully. Oily black on one side, soft and pink like a marshmallow on the other. On a whim, he touched the blob to his tongue. Screwing up his face at the bitter taste, he spat and wiped his hand across his mouth.

He wasn't annoyed at the mess; he'd take his time, clean everything up, return it to its desired state. He hadn't even been annoyed when those men had slaughtered Choronzon in front of him.

He was tired; he'd spent a long time hiding in the forest yesterday, keeping a watchful eye on the proceedings. He'd been annoyed that he'd had to intervene and 'rescue' the one called Dean, but he couldn't allow Kane to harm the man, not when his master wanted him.

Bob had hoped that the two men would take Kane out of the equation, because he hadn't dared kill Kane himself—not when Choronzon was using him, feeding on him.

And they'd brought that witch with them, the one they called Missouri. But he'd fooled her; he hadn't even flinched when he'd had to touch her. He'd even considered keeping her. He was pretty sure she would have been lots of fun. He would have liked to taste her.

He'd fooled those men, too, with his dumb act. They'd even had the nerve to call themselves 'hunters', but they hadn't seen what had been under their noses. He took a long pull at his cigarette, and savoring the taste, considered the decaying trees surrounding his yard. Such a giveaway, how could they not have noticed? But he really should have killed them both when his plans had started to fall apart. But by then it was too late. Choronzon had been delivered by the wrong martyr. Kane wasn't the host Choronzon needed. Kane had been sick, weak, and broken when he'd interfered, tainting Choronzon's birth and marring his passage into physical being. And who knew? Maybe Choronzon would call them back. He'd been right not to kill them.

So, Bob had watched his master's demise without emotion. Choronzon hadn't been 'finished', would never have been strong enough to work his terrible wonders, and Bob knew that. So he hadn't made a fuss. He would wait. And while he waited, he would plan the glorious rebirth. If it wasn't to be for him, maybe it could be for his child. Bob ground the cigarette but into the ground; he really should give up smoking, for the child's sake.

Gina, the girl at the convenience store who had smiled at him the last time he'd gone in. She was pretty, long hair the color of honey, pale skin and bright blue eyes. He would have her, providing she was a virgin. He'd keep her long enough to bear him a male child, and, if she amused him, he'd play with her a little longer before killing her.

He would wait, like his father and grandfather before him.

Cupping the remains of his master in his hand, Bob rose to his feet. He'd decided that he would keep it safe, along with the other special things he had locked up inside his metal cupboard.

The End


End file.
